


The Cure for Anything

by Ardenne



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alana Bloom POV, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Novel, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somebody Helps Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 155,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardenne/pseuds/Ardenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham's arrest and arraignment for five murders tests not only Alana Bloom's professional boundaries, but her ethical beliefs as well. When something unexpected happens in Will's case just as all hope is lost, Alana must decide which side she stands on -- and soon. There's a monster lurking at her door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Alana Bloom walked up the steps of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, a small paper shopping bag with Christmas presents for Will tucked under her arm. 

She was used to the routine, as she did it every week: she signed in at the front desk, got her visitor's badge, and then settled into a hard plastic chair to wait for the orderlies to bring Will up from the maximum security ward. She used to visit him there exclusively, but a new inmate had been brought in who screamed sexual obscenities at her the entire time she was there. After a session that had rattled both Alana and Will, she had requested to have her meetings with Will upstairs, pleading that it was essential that she assess Will in a quieter and more stable environment. Luckily, Chilton had obliged; he never obliged her much. 

It had been the longest nine months of her life: Will had been arraigned for five murders and confined to Baltimore State Hospital to await trial, but nothing much had happened since then. She had collected all the evidence she'd need for trial and performed all the necessary tests months ago. Now there were the endless court proceedings – the murders Will had been accused of committing happened in three different states, so they were dealing with the federal court system, and they seemed in no rush to grant Will a speedy trial. 

The delay was beginning to wear on everyone, Will most of all: Alana had begun to see definite signs of clinical depression and post-traumatic stress, and he was increasingly listless during her visits. According to her tests, he was a sane man completely aware of his surroundings, and they were beginning to take their toll. He was in solitary confinement most of the day except for his daily 10-minute shower, his weekly meetings with her, his bimonthly meetings with his attorney, and his biweekly “exercise” sessions in a locked cage. Barney, the only orderly at Baltimore State Hospital worth anything in her opinion, had told her that Will just sat on the ground for the hour. “He just stares into nothing like guys I saw in Iraq,” he'd said. She had relayed her concerns about Will's declining condition to Chilton, who had then proven he had utterly failed to learn his lesson with Gideon by suggesting electroconvulsive therapy in an attempt to restore Will's memories of the murders. Alana already knew he was a horrible excuse for a doctor, but she was now seriously considering the idea that he was a sadist as well.

But she had urged Will to behave himself and comply with all treatments so that Chilton could not testify that he had any history of violent behavior while he was at Baltimore State Hospital. Will had agreed, and to her knowledge there had been no reports of any incidents, but security around him had still not been relaxed. “They haven't forgotten what I did with the ambulance,” Will had muttered once, when she'd asked. 

As usual, Will was led into the conference room by two orderlies, and as always, he was heavily restrained – his hands were cuffed behind his back, with an orderly gripping each arm, and there were shackles around his legs so that he had to shuffle heavily. 

She waited while the orderlies strapped Will into the chair by his wrists and ankles. Once they were satisfied Will was secured, they went outside and Alana was able to sit in the chair opposite him. 

“Hi, Will.”

“Hi, Alana,” he said. His voice was quiet and he seemed very fatigued. There was a slight tremble in his hands. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked. 

“No, not really.”

“We don't have to meet today. You can rest if you like.”

He shook his head. “I like seeing you. It's like having coffee together, except for the fact that there's no coffee and I'm strapped to a chair.” 

“Very funny, smart ass. Did you talk to Bailey?” Eric Bailey was Will's attorney and was one of the best in the region for criminal cases involving the mentally ill. Will had used what little money he had to pay for his services, but after nine months, funds were running low. 

“There's been nothing new,” Will said. 

“I've got news: your bloodwork and last MRI came back clean. No signs of infection. Cancer screens are clean, too. Have you been having any symptoms?” Alana always asked this every time she came. The neurologist consulting on Will's case had urged her to keep asking even though it had been several months since he'd last reported symptoms. Patients with Will's type of encephalitis could relapse. 

“No, I've been okay,” he replied. “Not that I would notice if I lost much time in here. It might be a blessing.” 

She noted his blunted affect, his sense of hopelessness and defeat. A few weeks earlier, she had asked Chilton to prescribe Will antidepressant medication, but it didn't appear to be working. She hadn't been feeling so hot herself lately; she was pushing through work, but she thought about Will constantly and often made the drive home from Baltimore in tears. 

“The dogs are okay, before you can ask,” she said. He nodded. “Is there anything you want to talk about with me today, Will? You seem really down.” Will had continued to be hesitant to open up to her. She knew he was in pain, but he didn't want to share it, which was probably making his depression worse. 

When he didn't answer, she pushed a bit more. “I'm worried about you. You've lost your fight.” 

“My fight hasn't led anywhere or done me any good so far,” he said. “Maybe it's best to put it on hold.” He paused. “Can I ask _you_ something?”

“Sure.” 

“What do you say to a patient who's dying?”

She immediately wanted to turn the question back on him – _Why do you think you're dying?_ – but decided against it. “I don't often see dying patients in my line of work so I can't say for sure, but part of what I would do, theoretically, is help the patient process their grief and help plan for their future.” 

“What future is there for someone like me?” Will asked. 

“I don't know. That's a question for Bailey, really. But I'm trying to get you out of maximum security at least. I think you wouldn't feel so despondent if you had a little more freedom.” 

He shook his head. “It's a lost cause. Chilton won't let me out.” He was quiet for a minute or so. Alana didn't interrupt. “Christmas is getting close, isn't it? I know because of the commercials on TV. Coca-Cola, Hershey's, toys. Happy families.” 

“It's next Tuesday, less than a week from now. I'm coming to visit you.” 

“You don't have to.”

“I _want_ to.” 

“You should spend it with your family.” 

“They'll understand. It's the same every year, anyway. I can stand a year away.”

Another pause. “What's it like?” he asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“What's Christmas with your family like?” 

“I see my nieces and nephews – that's the best part. I get a lot of gift cards that I forget to redeem. My brothers get drunk, watch football, and bicker with their wives. My mother asks me when I'm getting married.” 

Will smiled ironically. “Not exactly Norman Rockwell.” 

“No, it isn't.” 

“Is there turkey?” 

Alana smiled. “There's turkey, at least. And Christmas cake.” Will smiled back a little, but went silent again. 

“I brought you some things,” Alana said, after a while. 

“I hope they're not those gift cards,” Will said. “I can't do much with those either.”

“No, they're not gift cards.” She had wrapped all the gifts, which seemed like a stupid decision now, as Will couldn't move his arms because his wrists were restrained to the chair. “Give me a moment, okay?” He nodded. 

She exited the conference room and found the two orderlies standing close by, talking to each other. “I've brought some Christmas gifts for Will,” she said. “Can you loosen his restraints so that he can unwrap them?”

One of the orderlies shook his head. “No, ma'am.” 

“Can I help him unwrap them, then?” she asked. The orderlies just looked at each other, as if Alana was asking something unheard of, like whether or not antlers had just sprouted from the sides of her head. After they didn't seem to appear to be working on an answer, she lost her patience. “For God's sake, can you figure out a strategy to let him unwrap some presents? It's Christmas and he's a human being.” 

One of the orderlies shrugged. “We'll have to screen them before he can have them in his cell.” 

“Do whatever you have to,” she said, going back inside the conference room. 

The orderlies followed her in. One of them began speaking loudly and slowly to Will, as if he was a half-deaf idiot. “Graham, we're going to untie your wrists so that you can open your Christmas presents. You need to keep your hands on or above the table where we can see them. Understood?”

“Yes,” Will answered, automatically; he was used to taking orders by now. The orderlies unbound his hands and he lay them, palms flat, on the metal table. Alana was determined not to let this treatment mar his Christmas, but it was disturbing to see him so dehumanized. 

She put her shopping bag on the table. Baltimore State Hospital was very strict about gifts and personal items for inmates, and Alana had consulted a list of approved items before she shopped. Both Alana and the two orderlies watched as Will unwrapped each gift: a new journal, several paperback books, several bars of good quality Christmas chocolate (she'd removed the labels, according to the institution's rules), some nicer toiletries than the cheap ones issued to him, and then, a photo of the dogs, dressed in Christmas hats and scarves, that she'd had developed at the pharmacy. When he saw this, Will smiled – his first genuine smile in their entire session. “How did you get this?”

“I got lucky, really. I held a toy above my head and told them the picture was for you and they had to be very good. They looked at me but none of them moved.” 

“They've been good?”

“Always. You've trained them well.” 

He stared at the picture for a long time, and then at the pile of small gifts on the table. He looked sad again. “Thank you for thinking of me.” 

“It was my pleasure.” _I wish I could have brought you more,_ she thought. _Nicer things._

“I'm sorry I don't have anything for you,” he murmured. He looked like he was about to cry. He might very well have, except that he was controlling himself because the orderlies were still in the room with them. 

“It's okay. I like giving gifts better than receiving them anyway.” What little pleasure he'd had at the gifts had been short-lived; Alana suspected they may have made him feel worse. It reminded him that it was Christmas and the best he could hope for was candy, toiletries, and books. After another long silence, she asked, “Will, has Dr. Chilton been giving you your antidepressant medication?”

“I don't know. They don't tell me what it is that I take. I just take it.” 

“Fair enough. I'll see you soon, okay? Tuesday, Christmas day. I'll be over in the early afternoon.”

“Okay, Alana. Thank you again for the presents.” 

“You're welcome.” She collected the gifts, put them in the shopping bag, and handed it to one of the orderlies. She smiled at Will as she left – he smiled back, but it was a hollow, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

Normally, she left directly or went to talk to Chilton if it was necessary, but today she lingered in the hallway for longer than usual. She watched the orderlies as they took Will, now back in his handcuffs and restraints, back toward his basement cell in the maximum security ward. One of them was holding a chain that linked through another chain on Will's waist. _They have him on a leash,_ she thought. _A fucking leash._

She managed to hold her tears back until she reached the parking lot.


	2. Chapter Two

Hannibal had invited Alana to his annual Christmas Eve dinner. Normally, an invitation to one of Dr. Lecter's fabulous Christmas Eve dinners was regarded as a huge honor, but Alana found that she didn't feel very festive. She made the effort to dress up, do her hair, and put on her makeup, trying not to think about how much more she wanted to stay in her pajamas, watching Christmas movies with the dogs. She showed up slightly late to Hannibal's on purpose so that she wouldn't have to make too much small talk with the other guests before dinner. 

She was standing apart from the rest of the guests, drinking a glass of wine and watching the snow fall peacefully outside the dining room windows, when Hannibal glided his hand across her shoulder. “Good evening, Alana,” he said.

“Good evening, Hannibal.” 

“How is Will?” he asked. 

“He's very, very down. He's gotten markedly worse in the past month. He's supposed to be on an antidepressant but I might need to suggest a dosage increase to Chilton.” 

Hannibal looked at her with his calm, keen, penetrating eyes. “You seem very tired yourself, Alana. Perhaps you're spending too much time with Will. His mental state can affect yours, if you're not careful.”

“He has no one else. The confinement and all the uncertainty about the trial has been difficult for him. It's not surprising that he's depressed. It's also my job to help him.”

“ _Is_ it your job, Alana?” Hannibal countered. “You only have to present on his mental state at the time of the murders. You're not officially his doctor. There's no need for you to visit him every week and drain yourself.”

Alana felt a surge of irritable anger. “What do you expect me to do, Hannibal, leave him to Chilton? He's completely inept and you know it. Will is _not_ insane, he's completely aware of everything going on around him, and Chilton is ill-equipped to deal with that kind of patient. I won't let him do to Will what he did to Gideon.” 

Hannibal bowed his head to her. “I defer to your wisdom and your passion, Dr. Bloom.” But to Alana, it just seemed like he was appeasing her rather than showing her genuine respect. She desperately wanted to go home – she even thought about faking a headache – but she knew how important etiquette was to Hannibal. Even if she was mad at him, he had still invited her to his home, and it would be impolite to leave. 

Dinner was beautifully prepared, as always, and was probably delicious, but to Alana it tasted like sawdust. She picked at her plates, feeling lonely and separate from the rest of the laughing and chattering guests. She thought of Will, who had probably gotten a barely edible meal shoved into his cell at seven that evening, and with no one but the sex screamer and the guards to share it with. He'd been resilient for a while, strong, but the place was breaking him. And now she knew that it was beginning to break her, too. 

Christmas morning dawned cold and sunny. She chatted with her nieces and nephews on Skype, telling them that she had a sick friend that was all alone on Christmas and he needed her this year, but she would be seeing them soon. Then, she dressed and made the long drive up to Baltimore. 

She was signing in at the visitor's log when she saw Hannibal Lecter's ostentatious signature on the line above hers, with Will's name in the space under the “Visiting Inmate” line. The sign-in time was less than an hour earlier. 

Barney was in today; he'd already put Will in a conference room because of Hannibal's visit. “Mr. Graham's testy, Dr. Bloom,” he said. “Dr. Lecter's visit upset him.” 

“I saw his name on the sign-in sheet. Do you know why he was here?”

“No, ma'am, except that things got heated between them, on Will's end at least. You know Dr. Lecter never shows any emotion.” 

Will was sitting strapped into his usual chair. His eyes were closed and he was very pale. “Will, Hannibal was here?” she asked as she sat down. 

“He just left,” he said. “You didn't see him on the way out?”

“No.” _He must be in conference with Chilton._ “Why was he here?” 

“I don't even know why he was here,” he said, petulance deep in his voice. “I don't want to see him anymore. I've told him that repeatedly. He's not my doctor anymore.” 

She sighed. “I think this might be my fault. He asked about you and I told him you were depressed.” 

“Alana, would you _please_ not give him any more information about me, or any reason to come and see me?” He was angry; he spoke through gritted teeth. 

“I'm so sorry, Will. It was unethical of me to tell him about you.” And it was – it was completely unprofessional of her, a rookie mistake, but she always forgot boundaries with Hannibal and he never corrected her. “I understand why you're upset.” 

Will closed his eyes again. “He's like Chilton, always trying to drill into my head. I don't _want_ him here any more.” He had raised his voice and started to tremble visibly. “He's _not_ my friend. He never was.” He was saying it to himself – to Hannibal – more than to her. “I know nobody gives a fuck what I want any more, that I'm not entitled to want anything at all, but I don't need that rubbed in my face all the time.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. She was disturbed – she had never seen him so distressed, not when he was at the height of his illness and not at any time he'd been here. 

He shook his head. “No, I don't want you to leave. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't leave. I just...I feel so sick...” 

“Have you been to the infirmary?”

“They don't take any of us from maximum security up there unless it's an emergency, not since Gideon. They just give me more drugs. I don't want any more drugs.” 

“Will, you could be relapsing.”

“Please...I'll ask later. Don't leave.” 

The orderlies had been very strict about telling her not to touch him -- a rule which she had, so far, obeyed – but Will was pale and it seemed like he would hardly be able to sit up if he hadn't been strapped into the chair. 

“Let me just come over and check your vitals. Can I do that?” 

He glared at her. “Alana, I'm _not_ going to hurt you. I'm _not_ an animal.”

“I know.” She had remarked the previous week that his fight had gone out; something else had replaced it now, but whatever it was, she didn't like it at all. “I know you're frustrated. I know.” She checked his temperature and pulse; he felt clammy and was trembling, but he had no fever. He was breathing normally. “You don't have a fever. Any pain?”

“My stomach hurts.” 

She nodded. “Nausea and vomiting?”

“Just nausea. It's bad today.” 

“How long have you felt nauseous?”

“A few weeks, I guess.” He shook his head. “I don't know for sure.” He closed his eyes again for a while, waiting for Alana to return to her seat at the other side of the desk. “Someone took all the chocolate you gave me. The guards tossed my cell the next morning and when they brought me back, it was gone. I'm sorry. I was saving it for when I felt better.” 

“It's not your fault.” _Motherfuckers. They probably took it to the break room, laughing the whole way._ “Those were your things, your gifts. They shouldn't have been stolen from you.” She could report it to Chilton, but what good would it do? Everything that was being done to Will was being done with his approval. She had learned over the past months that he was just as much a bully as most of the people he employed.

“I don't have any right to anything here,” Will said. “I'm a dog to them. Less than a dog, actually. They'd treat a dog better than they do me.” He laughed humorlessly. “Merry fucking Christmas, huh? You would have been better off with your family.” The tears he'd held in so desperately last session were welling up in his eyes, compounded by his anger at Hannibal's visit and the theft. 

She knew Barney was outside and she hoped he'd have enough sense to let her give Will what he needed and not to interfere. She moved the heavy metal chair next to to where Will sat, and sat down again next to him. She put an arm around him. “If you want, you can lay your head on my shoulder.” 

Wordlessly, he nestled into her shoulder. He would never have done that on the outside – he was craving gentle, caring contact. There wasn't much, if any, of that to be found here. She could tell by the dampness on her sweater and the hitching of his breath that he was crying. She stroked his shoulder and arm and held his hand. They sat like that silently for the rest of their hour together. 

Barney knocked softly, then opened the door. “I'm sorry, Dr. Bloom, but time's up.” 

“He's got nausea and abdominal pain,” she said. “Could I talk to Dr. Chilton?” 

“Dr. Chilton isn't here today. We're on skeleton staff due to the holiday.” 

_So where did Hannibal go?_ She hadn't seen his Bentley outside, she was sure of it. It was like, between the conference room and the front doors, he had disappeared off the face of the earth. 

“I'll tell the nurse he's not well,” Barney said. “She'll have a look at him downstairs.” 

Alana wanted to beg for more time – it was Christmas, after all – but she knew they kept strict records. She ran her fingers through Will's hair and touched his face affectionately. “I have to go. Get some rest and if you still feel ill, ask for the infirmary, all right? You don't have to suffer in silence.” She rose, then leaned down and kissed the crown of his head. “Merry Christmas.” 

Will nodded. His eyes and nose were still red and it looked like seeing her leave was the last thing he wanted. “Merry Christmas, Alana. Thank you for coming.” 

“I'll see you next week.”

“Okay.” 

Barney held the door open for her as she left. “Thank you, Barney,” she said, once she was in the hallway and out of Will's earshot.

“For what?”

“For letting me comfort Will. He needed it.” 

“Mr. Graham's a nice person, Dr. Bloom. He doesn't belong here.” 

She thought about Barney's words as she walked to her car. _No,_ she thought, _Will doesn't belong here, but where else is someone like him supposed to go?_

In February, nearly a year after Will's arrest, Alana was called to a meeting between Will and Bailey. Bailey said that Will wanted her opinion. 

The meeting was a strategy talk. There seemed to be little interest in actually getting Will to trial, and Bailey, alerted to Will's deepening depression, had decided to lay everything out on the table. “There are no precedents for a case like yours,” he said. “If we do go to trial, we can't be completely sure what will happen. But I think we are likely to lose. Insanity defenses rarely succeed, temporary insanity even less. On paper, Will, you are not insane, and we can't prove you were insane at the time of all five of the murders. We can't definitively prove you were insane for any of them. We only have a theory – a very good theory – but a theory nonetheless. Your best bet is to plead guilty in exchange for a lesser sentence.” 

“I will not confess to something I didn't do,” Will said. 

“It's not a confession, Will. If the prosecutors agree to it, an Alford plea would allow you to plead guilty to lesser charges, which will shorten your time in prison. You can maintain your innocence; you just acknowledge that there's enough evidence to convict you if you should go to trial. Dr. Bloom will then argue that prison is not what you need, but institutionalization and treatment.”

“Here?”

“Dr. Bloom wants you out of here, or at the very least out of maximum security confinement. You'll be placed in a state institution. We can try to get you moved to another state if your record's clean and you've been compliant to treatment, which you have.”

“I'm looking into some places for you,” Alana said. “I want you someplace good, where you'll be treated decently.” 

Will was silent for a while. Alana thought it looked like something inside of him had died. “Eric, you really think there's no chance at a criminal trial?” he asked. 

“I wish I could give you better news, Will. A trial would be brutal on you and you're likely to lose. If we go to trial, the prosecution will seek the death penalty, which you're likely to get on five capital murder charges. Neither of us wants that for you.” 

“So if I plead, what'll happen?” 

“You'll get a hearing with a judge. No jury. The judge will go over the evidence presented during deposition. I think it is likely you will be questioned. During questioning, be honest, be sincere, show remorse.” Bailey smiled. “I know you can do that.” 

Will looked at Alana. The sadness in his eyes broke her heart. She knew he believed he was innocent, she knew that he wanted his day in court, but she also knew what was likely to happen. Bailey was right: if he lost, he would probably be sentenced to death. Above all, her priority was to preserve Will's life. If he was alive, she could help him. She couldn't help a dead man. 

“You should plead, Will,” she said. “You'll get a reduced sentence. We can help you. A trial won't work. The DNA evidence is too strong. People have been sentenced to death on less.” 

Will nodded, then lowered his eyes and stared down at the table. 

“I can begin the paperwork today,” Bailey said. “It'll probably be a few more months since we have to wait for the prosecution to decide whether or not they'll take the deal. But you'll have an answer soon, Will. You'll be able to move on.” 

Will was silent for the rest of the meeting. He looked utterly defeated. 

The hearing was scheduled for early April. It had been a long winter, and it was still very cold. Will's decision to plead instead of go to trial seemed to grant him no peace; if anything, he seemed increasingly despondent as his hearing date grew closer. Alana often spent the time after their sessions wondering if she should ask Chilton to place Will on suicide watch for his own safety, but she was also worried that the experience, which would definitely not be pleasant, would damage Will's fragile mental state even more. She knew that she only had difficulty making this decision because she had completely lost her professional objectivity with Will. _I don't want him to hate me,_ she thought. _That's why I'm not telling._

She was also aware that Will was being more heavily drugged. He was very fatigued and seemed to have trouble following their conversation at times. His moods were unpredictable – he was never violent, but he was often depressed and irritable, even petulant. He rarely joked with her, as he once had. Alana knew he was wearing down. She wanted to encourage him, to tell him not to let this place get to him, but she often found herself at a loss for words, too. The reality was that, even with a plea deal, Will was facing a very long sentence, perhaps the rest of his life, and he had yet to fully process that. And Alana, feeling guilty, knew that was part of her job, a huge part of her job that she couldn't do because she couldn't remain objective. But she refused to withdraw from his case, refused to leave him to Chilton alone. 

“Have you been writing at all in that journal I gave you for Christmas?” she asked him during their session three weeks before his court date.

“Yeah,” he said. “A bit.”

“If you want, you can bring it next time and we can look at some of what you've written.”

He shrugged, noncommittally. “It's boring.”

“I don't mind boring. I don't need to be impressed.”

He was silent for a while, then spoke. “What's the weather like outside?”

“Why do you ask?” She could think of much more important things to talk about.

He was silent again. Alana didn't expect him to respond, but he did. “I haven't seen a tree in almost a year.” 

Alana nodded. “It's been a long winter, but things are coming back.” 

He closed his eyes. “Tell me more,” he whispered. 

And Alana did. She told him about the chilly bite in the air in the mornings, and the fog and the night mists along the fields that lined the highway, and the warm sun in the afternoons. She told him about blossoming trees and frosty windows and the fog of her breath. He kept his eyes closed through all of it, a few tears rolling down his cheeks as she spoke. She knew that he had retreated into his imagination, that the world was coming alive in his mind as she spoke. It was the only tool he had left to preserve himself.

“Thank you,” he murmured when she was done.

“You're welcome.” She desperately wanted to touch him, to give him tactile comfort as she had on Christmas, but Barney wasn't here and the orderlies wouldn't let her. 

“Don't cry, Alana,” he said, more tenderly than she'd ever heard him speak. He was looking right at her, and she hadn't even been aware she was crying. 

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, wiping away her tears. 

“I'll write something for you and we can talk about it next week if you want,” he said. 

“I'd like that,” she said, smiling at him. Now that her tears had started, they wouldn't stop. 

“I didn't mean to make you cry,” he said softly. 

“I cry a lot these days,” she whispered. 

He was still looking straight at her – an unusually long time for eye contact, even between them. She looked back, the tears still flowing. Will seemed to want to say something to her, but he couldn't say it. And seeing him struggle caused her to feel something, too – a feeling she had tried to block, but that came anyway, in her tears and her desperation and her sorrow. 

She loved Will Graham and her heart was shattered and that was why she cried, that was why she cried all the way home from Baltimore every time she saw him, cried until there was nothing left but emptiness. 

But she didn't say it. She wanted to, but her fear was stronger than her desire: fear that Chilton would find out and block her from visiting the man she loved, fear that she would be regarded as a biased witness and be removed from his case. _I've become like Will,_ she thought. _I operate out of fear, too._

Watching her, Will did something unusual. He smiled at her, a real, genuine smile. She could never be entirely sure if Will knew anything, because he was so bad at reading social cues, but this time, she felt that he _knew._ She knew he knew. 

“We have an audience,” he whispered. 

“I know,” she whispered back. Her tears were drying up. They would return on the drive home, she knew, jogged by the sight of the spring flowers that Will couldn't see from his basement cell. 

“I can empathize with anyone,” Will murmured. “My gift and my curse, I suppose. But I like empathizing with you most of all.” 

“Then do it all you want,” she murmured back. 

There was a loud knock on the door – the orderlies' signal that their session was over. Alana rose, not bothering to wipe away her tears. They were gifts for Will, she felt, given out of love, and better than any book or chocolate, or anything money could buy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized last night I had mistitled this story when I first posted it -- it's been corrected. You will find out what Will and Hannibal discussed on Christmas morning that so upset him later on in the story; at this point, it's not something Will is comfortable telling Alana.


	3. Chapter Three

Alana arrived for her usual visit with Will on the Wednesday before the hearing. She was waiting in her hard chair when she saw Barney coming down the hallway towards her. 

“Hi, Barney,” she said. “Where's Will?”

“He's sick, Dr. Bloom. He won't come out of his cell.” 

Alana rose from her seat, gathering her coat and purse. “Take me to him.” 

The screamer started as soon as he saw her coming down the hall of the maximum security ward, but he wasn't going to rattle her today. She was going to get to the bottom of whatever game Chilton was playing. 

After what seemed like an endless walk, the screamer ranting about the smell of her cunt the whole way down, she reached Will's cell at the end of the block. He was lying in fetal position on his cot, wrapped in his feeble blanket. His small, hard pillow was over his head in an attempt to block out the light and noise of the cellblock. 

Barney was still beside her; he had accompanied her down to Will's cell. “Has he seen a nurse?” she asked him. 

“She examined him and drew some blood but didn't find anything. She thinks it's a virus he can't shake.” 

Alana doubted that was the case, but nodded anyway. “Will, are you awake?” she asked, keeping careful control of her voice – loud enough for him to hear her, but not loud enough to disturb him. 

“I'm awake,” he said. It was difficult to hear him over the screamer and the fact that he had a pillow over his head. She could see his eyes, though – they were open and he was looking at her. 

“I can't come in, but can you tell me what's wrong? What are you feeling?” 

“Dizzy. It's really bad today, I can't lift my head.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, Alana. You came all this way.” 

“It's not your fault. Rest, okay? I'll see you in a few days.”

Barney accompanied her back upstairs, where she requested to see Chilton. She waited a few minutes, impatiently, for Chilton's assistant to lead her into his office. “Good afternoon, Dr. Bloom,” he said. 

Alana wasn't interested in formalities. “Dr. Chilton, Will is too sick to leave his cell and his hearing is in less than a week. He's been sick for months. Do you have any idea what's wrong with him? Does he need to be hospitalized?”

“He _is_ in a hospital, Doctor.” 

“You know what I mean.” _You fucking asshole._ “This is a physical illness, not a psychiatric one. His lawyer needs him healthy enough to testify in court.” 

Chilton smiled. “Will Graham will never be healthy enough to testify in court. He's insane.”

“That's not my diagnosis.” 

“Well, it's mine, Dr. Bloom, and as I'm his psychiatrist, it's the only one that matters. It is my professional opinion that Will Graham has a legitimate case of dissociative identity disorder.” She could practically hear the glee in Chilton's smarmy voice. 

She couldn't keep the disgust and petulance out of her own voice. “He does _not_ have dissociative identity disorder. His dissociative episodes were temporary. They occurred as a result of complex partial seizures associated with advanced autoimmune encephalitis. There is medical evidence of this diagnosis.” 

“We'll have to disagree, Dr. Bloom.” Chilton was still smiling at her in that placating way she hated – that way that men who thought they were more clever than her liked to smile at her. 

“Dr. Lecter agrees with _me_ ,” she said. 

“No, my dear, I'm afraid he doesn't.” 

That stopped her in her tracks. “What?” 

“Dr. Lecter is changing his diagnosis in response to my input and his own personal interviews with Graham.” 

“I don't understand.” 

“Graham's become very angry with him during their sessions. I understand their visit on Christmas morning became quite heated. Dr. Lecter fears he might become violent again, that the Hobbs alter that committed the murders in Minnesota might surface again.” 

_No...Hannibal, you're wrong. We have to be consistent, for Will's sake. We have to agree._ She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach – she'd been seeing Will every week for a year now, and he'd never shown any hint of violent behavior. He'd been irritable sometimes, even emotionally distressed, but who wouldn't be? And a _Hobbs alter?_ There was no evidence of an alternate personality, not that she'd ever seen – it was a theory they'd thrown around, very briefly, but it had been invalidated when Will's encephalitis was diagnosed; it explained his sudden and severe psychosis. _Hannibal, what are you playing at?_ “How long has Dr. Lecter suspected this?” she asked. 

“Quite a while now, Dr. Bloom. I suppose he didn't tell you?” He looked so smug that Alana had the urge to hit him. She felt herself getting angry, raising her voice. “Will has said repeatedly that he doesn't want to see Dr. Lecter any more and I've asked you to honor his requests.”

“Will Graham does not dictate whom he gets to see!” Chilton roared, slamming a hand on his desk. _“I do!”_

She took a deep breath, tried to calm her anger. “Dr. Chilton, I didn't come here to have a dick-measuring contest with you. I'm concerned about Will. He's been complaining of illness for months and he's just recovered from a very serious condition. His neurologist has warned me that he could relapse. I need to prevent that from happening, both for his safety and the safety of your staff.” 

“My medical staff has found nothing wrong with him.”

“Are you suggesting that he's malingering?”

“His symptoms are normal for a patient receiving high doses of psychiatric medications.” 

“High doses? What the hell are you giving him?” _Oh God, I told him to take whatever he was given,_ she thought, her stomach sinking even more.

“He suffers from paranoid delusions. He's killed five people. He might have multiple alternate personalities. Until he realizes his true role in these murders and begins to show signs of improvement, I will give him whatever treatment I think is necessary.” 

“He hasn't been found guilty of any crime.” 

Chilton laughed, mockingly. “You can't be serious. He's set to plead guilty to five murders next week. He'll get a mandatory twenty-five years if he's _lucky_.” 

The sinking feeling in Alana's stomach was rapidly turning to nausea. _Something's not right here..._ Hannibal had never once told her about these conversations with Chilton, never once mentioned that he was changing his diagnosis. It didn't make any sense – they had both delivered depositions to the court, and they had both agreed on Will's encephalitis being the cause of the murders. Before his encephalitis, he'd never had a history of violence, never been arrested, never had substance abuse issues. He'd earned advanced college degrees, held a prestigious job, and owned a home...none of the signs of a severe and debilitating mental illness such as DID were there. 

Then, Alana knew. “You want to study him, don't you? That's what this is all about. You want to write a bunch of papers on him for the _Journal of Abnormal Psychology_ , get some accolades for yourself, get grad students and other doctors in here to poke at him.” 

“You were one of those doctors once, poking at Abel Gideon for your psychopathy survey.”

“I didn't know any better then!” she yelled, losing control. “Now I do!” 

Chilton sat up straighter in his chair, smoothed his tie. “Dr. Bloom, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I've put up with the little love story between you and Graham for a year now. I've been more than accommodating letting a psychiatrist who is not on my staff see him every week. Next week, when he pleads guilty and receives his sentence, these little visits between the two of you will end. You will obey the rules of any other visitor – you will ask for permission any time you wish to see Graham, and _I_ will decide whether or not, in my professional opinion, it is appropriate for you to see him. And I can assure you that it will be very rare. 

“Inmates at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane _do not leave._ We promise them a release date, as we must by law, and then we revoke it based on our expert opinions. They only leave in body bags. Your fantasy of transferring him out of my hospital won't happen. In a few years, if he's agreeable and docile and takes his meds and participates in my studies, I'll place him in the medium security ward. Every year after that, he'll earn a few more privileges. He'll wash his ass for fifteen minutes a day instead of ten, exercise on the grounds instead of in a cage, get some art therapy or whatever holistic bullshit the state recommends, maybe even get his own TV set if he's exceptionally good. If a tumor or a heart attack doesn't carry him off beforehand, after twenty years or so of excellent behavior he might get a conjugal visit a year, maybe to spend with you when you're fat and old and gray because you've been dumb enough to wait for him. _That_ is his future, Dr. Bloom. _You_ should ask _your_ therapist to check you for delusional beliefs.” 

Alana turned and walked out of his office. She was seething and felt the hot tears of rage sting her eyes. That evil motherfucker, Chilton, was not going to make her cry...

She ducked into the visitor's bathroom, checking briskly to see if the two stalls was empty. They were. She leaned over the dirty sink. “Hold it together, Alana,” she murmured to herself, staring at her reflection. “Hold it together.” 

There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Just a minute!” she said. Her voice was wavering.

“Dr. Bloom? It's Barney. You okay?” 

She opened the door to let him in, then turned on the faucet to avoid their conversation being overheard. “I need your help,” she said. “Where can we talk that's private?” 

Barney did not hesitate. “The hall cameras have video but no sound. I'll take you to the staff lounge. There's a snack machine in there. You can get a bottle of water while we talk.” His voice was steady and sure, as if he was used to doing this. 

Alana turned off the water, then picked up her purse and coat and walked with Barney down the hall to the lounge. “I need you to do something for me,” she muttered, “but it could cost you your job if you get caught.” 

“Then I won't get caught.” Barney said, quietly. 

“I need to give a message to Will. Chilton can't know.” 

“Write it on toilet paper and I'll give it to him when I take him out for exercise tomorrow. There's a place out there where we can get out of camera range for a few seconds. I'll tell him to read it and then swallow the paper.” 

Alana nodded. “I'll pay you whatever you want for the risk.”

“No ma'am. I won't take money from you, not for helping Mr. Graham.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Graham's always been nice to me. I mean it when I say he doesn't belong here. He's helped a few of the other patients – he's told us stuff about them even Dr. Chilton couldn't figure out. He's smarter than Dr. Chilton and that's why Dr. Chilton hates him.”

“Chilton's got him drugged out of his mind.” 

“Yeah, I noticed. He's not the same as he was.” 

They reached the staff lounge – Alana got the bottle of water Barney had told her to get, for benefit of the cameras – and then she went into the staff bathroom to write the message for Will. She took a few pieces of the cheap toilet paper and wrote on them with a ballpoint pen. _I need you to stop taking your meds three days before your court date. Ask Barney if you're not sure when it is. It will be difficult, but I need your head clear. Chilton is overmedicating you and that's why you're sick. I think Hannibal is involved. We'll talk later._

She handed the note to Barney. “You can read it. Will might ask you about it.” He scanned over it quickly, expressionlessly, and then rolled it up and stuck it in the pocket of his pants. “Okay, Dr. Bloom. I'll make sure he does what you ask.” 

“Thank you. If anything goes wrong, will you let me know?” 

“Nothing will go wrong, Doctor. This is child's play. You wouldn't believe half the shit that goes down in a place like this.” 

Once she was safely in her car, she called Bailey. “Eric, Dr. Lecter might want to deliver new testimony to the court. I need you to do whatever you can to keep it out.” 

“What's he saying?” 

“He wants to change Will's diagnosis to dissociative identity disorder – multiple personalities. I think he's got something planned with Chilton. I don't know what's going on, but if Will has any chance of ever getting out of here, that testimony can't go through. It might compromise our theory about why he committed the murders.” 

“You sound upset.”

“I just spoke to Chilton. He wants to study Will. He's been overmedicating him – that's why Will's been sick and listless the past few months. I'm fairly sure he's been giving him antipsychotics, but since Will doesn't have psychosis, they're just making him ill. Use of those meds could potentially trigger psychotic symptoms, which is what I think Chilton and Hannibal want.” She sighed. “Chilton's got no intention of ever letting Will go. He told me, flat-out, that he will never release him and never agree to a transfer. We've got to give Will some hope or I'm afraid of what will happen.” 

Bailey agreed to do what he could to keep the new testimony, if there was any, out of the evidence. “To my knowledge, Dr. Lecter has submitted nothing, but I'll be on the lookout for any last-minute changes.”

“Thanks, Eric,” she said.

“You're welcome, Alana.” He paused. “I'll do my best for Will. I promise you that. I know how much it means to you.” 

“Thank you,” Alana said, closing her eyes. She was rattled. She'd expected this kind of sneakiness from Chilton, but never from Hannibal – he could be unorthodox, but she had never thought him capable of leaving her out of a decision that involved both of them, a decision which was vital to Will's defense. Hannibal had always claimed to care about Will, even after his arrest, but to her, this didn't seem like the action of a caring doctor. This seemed like the action of someone relentlessly ambitious, someone who was seeking fame just as much as Chilton was.


	4. Chapter Four

Alana couldn't sleep the night before Will's hearing. Barney had reassured her during her visit that afternoon that everything had gone okay with the note, and Will seemed more alert and stable during their meeting than he had in a while. 

She was at the courthouse in Baltimore at eight A.M., knowing that Will was scheduled to leave Baltimore State Hospital at six and would likely be at court by the time she got there. His hearing was tentatively scheduled for nine. 

She found him in an antechamber with Bailey and his legal assistant and two hospital guards. Will's hands were cuffed in front of him – an unusual occurrence, probably just for court – and he was wearing restraints on his wrists as well. He could barely move his arms. 

Alana gave him a short, friendly hug; he couldn't embrace her back. “How did you sleep?” she asked. He shook his head. “Did you eat?” He shook his head again. She sighed: she wasn't surprised, but he'd need his strength.

She looked him over. “Your tie's crooked.”

“I was trying to remember how to do it,” he said, “but I just couldn't...my hands wouldn't work.”

“It's okay, I've got it.” As she fixed his tie, she looked at his face. Will looked different clean-shaven and with short hair: he looked younger, more boyish. It was also obvious how exhausted and downtrodden he looked. _He's holding his head above water, but barely,_ she thought. 

“Your jacket's too big, too.” She ran her hands along his shoulders to try to smooth it out. 

“They don't let me go in for tailoring at Baltimore State Hospital.” _Sarcasm – good,_ Alana thought. It meant the old Will, the Will she knew, was still there. He was struggling, but he was there. 

Alana gave him another look-over, then smiled at him. “There.” She held onto his shoulders longer than would be deemed appropriate. Will was looking into her eyes and the world seemed to stop for a while. 

“Dr. Bloom?” She heard Bailey's voice as if it came from underwater, but it was enough to snap her out of the spell. She looked away from Will, taking her hands off his shoulders, and turned towards Bailey, who was beckoning her towards him. “I'll be right back,” she told Will, quietly; she saw him nod. 

Bailey was standing close to the door. “What do you think?” he asked. 

Alana sighed. “Will believes in his innocence, and that's the only thing keeping him going at this point.” She grabbed her purse. “I'm going to go downstairs and get him some food. He says he didn't eat this morning and it doesn't look like he got much sleep, either.” 

“Should I get him some coffee?” Bailey asked. 

“It could make him jittery. He's already shaking like a leaf.” Alana could see his hands trembling. “I think he'll be okay with one small cup. Tell him it's doctor's orders.” 

Alana crossed the floor to the elevator. It took a while to come and she tapped her heel and paced impatiently. She was trying not to think, but just breathe and steady herself, maintain a cool head. Finally, the elevator came; she boarded and went down to the first floor, where she exited and followed signs to the cafeteria. 

She wasn't sure how much Will would be able to eat – if he felt anything like she did, which was likely, it wasn't much – but she decided on a handful of protein bars. She also bought him some juice and water. She didn't want anything for herself; she was running on coffee and fumes at this point. She rode a full elevator back up to the fifth floor, where Will was. 

Bailey's assistant, a young man in a suit, was waiting for her. “Dr. Bloom, we need you,” he said. There were more people milling around now; the press and the victims' families were starting to gather outside the courtroom. Bailey's assistant was smart enough not to run, but he was clearly in a hurry, and Alana followed briskly. 

They entered the antechamber. Will was standing up, his hands still in restraints, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. Bailey was trying to calm him. 

“Eric, let me handle it,” she said, forcing him out of the way. “Will, it's okay. Look at me, listen to me.” She cupped both his cheeks in her hands. 

“I can't do it,” he gasped. “I can't say I killed them when I didn't.” He was shaking his head and trembling uncontrollably. 

“I have Xanax if he needs it,” she heard Bailey say from behind her. 

“No, no drugs, not today,” she said. “I'll get him through.” She glanced at Bailey's assistant and the guards. “Anyone nonessential needs to get out for now. And please, for God's sake, remove these restraints!” 

“Dr. Chilton's orders, ma'am.”

“Fuck Chilton! He's not going anywhere!” 

The guards took off his wrist restraints but refused to uncuff him. “I can't breathe,” Will was saying, forcing the words out from his heaving chest. 

“Yes, you can. Breathe with me, okay?” She guided him back to his seat, and pulled her own chair close to his, so that their knees were touching. “Focus on my eyes and my voice. Take a breath, imagine it going into your lungs, filling you up. Feel your belly expand with it. Good, hold it. _Hold it,_ Will. 

“Now exhale. Imagine all the air leaving you, like you're a deflating balloon. Finish on the count of five.” She counted. “Another breath. Slow.” She counted to five. “Hold for two seconds, then exhale...two...three...four...five. Good.” 

She led Will through another round of long breaths, and then told him to breathe deeply but normally. She took his pulse; it was still racing. “Put your head down on the table,” she ordered. “Breathe slowly, nice and deep.” 

She let Will rest for a few minutes. She rubbed his back and shoulders to calm him. He had broken out into a cold sweat. 

Bailey, who had stayed in the room the whole time with him, spoke up once he sensed Will had calmed. “This is your decision. If you want, we can withdraw the plea and prep for trial.” 

“A trial which I will likely lose,” Will muttered. 

“Yes.” 

“I didn't kill anyone, and I'm going to admit that I did. I'm going to admit that I killed five people.” 

“You're allowed to maintain your innocence,” Bailey said. “All you're saying is that there's enough evidence to convict you.” 

“It's semantics, Eric,” Will responded, impatience in his voice. He turned his eyes to Alana. “I keep thinking this is a nightmare I can't wake from.” 

“We have to minimize your risk,” Bailey said. “With a premeditated capital murder verdict, you'll likely be facing execution. At best, you'll spend the rest of your life in a federal maximum security prison or in that hole in Baltimore State Hospital.”

“I don't even care any more,” Will said, closing his eyes. “I'm in hell already.” 

“Eric,” Alana said, turning to Bailey. “Can I speak to Will alone?”

“Sure, Alana. I'll be right outside.” Bailey went outside, but the guards made no effort to move. 

Alana sighed. “If he runs, you can tackle him, okay? Please wait outside. I need to have a private conversation with my patient.” 

The guards looked at each other, but agreed to step outside. She and Will were alone. 

Will looked at her, and her heart broke from the look of desperation in his eyes. “You told me to be good. I've taken meds that have made me sick, I've taken all of Chilton's stupid tests, I've sat with Dr. Lecter while he looks at me like I'm his pet, I haven't fought with anyone or caused any trouble.” 

“I know.” She sighed. “I know.” 

“Alana, what do I do? I can't see my way out of this. I've tried and tried and I can't find a way out.”

“I can't, either.” 

“Do you believe me when I say I didn't kill anyone?”

She searched her heart – she didn't want to lie. “Yes,” she said. “I don't know what happened, Will, but I believe you would never intentionally hurt anyone.” 

“Unintentionally, though?” 

Alana let the question hang. “I would not be letting you do this if I could see any other option. With this, you might have a chance to get out someday.” 

“Someday,” he murmured. He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“Someday.” 

They both were quiet for a long while. Alana had never felt so helpless – she was used to finding answers, to fixing things, and there was nothing here she could fix. Will, whom she loved, was going to either go to prison or back to his cell at Baltimore State Hospital, likely for the rest of his life, and there was nothing, _nothing_ she could do about it. 

Finally, Will spoke. “Why did you stay?” he asked. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Everyone else left me, but you come to see me, week after week, even though I can't pay you, even though I'm regarded as something only slightly above vermin. Why did you stay?”

She looked into his sad eyes, saw him, in her mind's eye, being walked down the hallway of a state institution on a leash. The same feeling she'd felt weeks ago, in their last private meeting together, rose within her and she desperately wanted to give voice to it, because it was right and it was what she felt and it was not at all ethical or smart or logical. 

“Because I love you.” 

He smiled, genuinely. “I love you, too. Sucks facing the rest of my life in prison to realize that, doesn't it?” Alana laughed, then reached up and stroked his face. 

He placed his forehead on hers and they were silent again for a long while. Alana interlaced her fingers with his. Only with Will could she be silent like this; she had never felt that with any other man. Other men tried to talk – some of them never shut up – but Will was content in his silence, and at this moment, she felt content, too. Their silence said more than any words could say. 

She was aware time was passing – there didn't seem to be enough time now. _You either have too much time, or not enough,_ she thought. _Never the right amount. That's the trick it plays on you._

Will broke their embrace. “I brought you something.” He reached into the breast pocket of his too-big jacket and pulled out the journal she'd given him for Christmas. “Don't look at it until tonight, okay? That's all I have left to ask of you.” 

“Okay.” She took the journal and placed it into her purse. 

“You're the best friend I've ever had,” he said. She thought of Chilton's plans, and how these might be the last moments they could spend together, alone, intimate...

She leaned over and kissed him, very gently. It was a bittersweet kiss and she wanted more, but she also couldn't let herself be carried away. Will appeared to know that, too. “See you on the other side,” he said. 

Alana nodded. “I'll be right behind you, okay? I won't leave you.” She kissed him again, desperately, and then they embraced. 

Alana rose and exited the chamber, letting Bailey and his assistant and the guards back inside. She took a look back at Will, who was looking at her, too. She wanted to shout out to him like they were in a stupid melodramatic, romantic movie – _I love you_ – but her mouth had gone dry from fear. 

She walked into the courtroom. It was small and, surprisingly, filled with people except for the front two rows on the defendant's side – the family section. As she walked there, she noted Freddie Lounds's distinctive curly hair in the media section, which was full. 

Alana was disappointed, but not surprised, to see that none of Will's colleagues had shown up. They had all been deposed, all testified, but no one from the BAU had come today, not even Jack. _Fairweather friends,_ she thought. She took her place in one of the empty front benches. 

She heard, rather than saw, someone sit directly behind her – she turned and faced Hannibal, looking resplendent in a blue suit. “Alana,” he said, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

“Hannibal,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. 

“How is our good Will?” he asked. 

“Holding up,” she said, nodding absently, remembering how it had upset Will when she gave Hannibal too much information. “I'm surprised to see you here.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?” 

“I figured you'd have patients,” she lied. 

“Will was once my patient. I always make time for him,” Hannibal said, smoothly. As always, his face and voice had an air of detachment. Alana was suddenly very aware that she hadn't seen him since Christmas, hadn't contacted him, hadn't even missed him. 

A side door opened and Will walked in, followed by Bailey and his assistant and the bailiff. Alana smiled at him, trying to give him what strength she could. His eyes focused on her, but she could tell when he saw Hannibal – they stared at each other for a moment, and a icy hardness came over Will's features. Focus, Will, she thought. 

Will and Bailey sat down at the defendant's table. The prosecutors were also seated, shuffling papers and booting up laptops. 

The bailiff announced when the judge was entering and they all rose. The judge was an older, bearded man, who had keen eyes behind his reading glasses. The bailiff announced that the court could be seated, but Will and Bailey remained standing. The judge nodded towards Will. “Good morning, Mr. Graham. I understand you've come here today because you wish to enter into a plea agreement. I also understand that, though you do this under the advice of your legal counsel, that you do this of your own free will and with full knowledge of the repercussions of admitting guilt.” 

“Yes, Your Honor,” Will answered. 

“Before I reach my decision as to whether or not the court will accept your plea, I would like to speak with you. Do you consent to questioning?” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

There was a short pause as the bailiff escorted Will over to a podium in the center of the room, where he was sworn in. Alana's heart was in her throat. Despite herself, she was trembling. She knew Will had testified as an expert witness before and that he knew his way around court proceedings, but his breakdown had shaken her. She was never sure if she believed in God, but she prayed anyway. _Please, have mercy on him. Give him some hope._

“Mr. Graham, I've examined these case materials thoroughly. I've watched the depositions given by Dr. Bloom here” – he nodded to Alana – “as well as ones given by your former psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, your former supervisor, Jack Crawford, and several forensic specialists that you worked with in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I have studied police reports and the Federal Bureau of Investigation files on each of these cases, as well as a great deal of material concerning yourself.” 

“After all of that, I expected to find an answer as to what I believe to be true about this case, but I admit that there are still aspects of this case that do not make sense. There was none of your DNA at any of the murder scenes – not necessarily surprising if you did commit them, considering your expertise at forensics. You allegedly committed four clean, even _meticulous_ murders, murders that were never traced to you at any time during their investigations, and then a fifth where you were found covered in injuries containing the victim's DNA. Your doctors testified that the reason this occurred was because of your declining mental state, but if your mental state was indeed declining, one would think that this sloppiness would show up earlier, perhaps during the murders of Dr. Donald Sutcliffe or Georgia Madchen, two murders for which, again, you were never considered a suspect.

“It also does not make sense to me that you would willfully connect four murders that you yourself committed, murders that had previously established suspects and accepted DNA evidence, and then give that information to the FBI. Either you were desperate to be caught, which few skilled serial killers are, or you truly don't remember committing these murders, as Dr. Bloom and Dr. Lecter both claim.” 

“There is another possibility, Your Honor,” Will said. 

“What possibility is that?” 

Will hesitated. Alana could see him trembling. “That the person that committed these murders planted the evidence in my home to frame me. This person is close to the cases, was aware of the strength of DNA evidence in a court, knew I was in a vulnerable condition, and when the possibility emerged that I might connect this person to these murders, he wanted to make sure that I was discredited so that he could avoid detection.” 

The judge raised his eyebrows. “You have a suspect in mind?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Can you prove anything about this suspect?” 

Will closed his eyes briefly, and swallowed hard. “Not conclusively.” 

The judge looked thoughtful. “That's quite an accusation.” 

“I know, Your Honor.” 

“I'm sure your doctors and attorney have cautioned you not to mention it.”

“My doctors have, Your Honor.” Will looked a little sheepish. “My attorney didn't know about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone I've told has told me that they believe this accusation is a paranoid delusion, a lingering effect of my illness.” 

“But you are choosing to ignore those opinions. Why?” 

“Because it's not a delusion. It's the truth.” 

“Do you feel that you are capable of knowing truth from delusion, Mr. Graham?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I am. Dr. Bloom's test results prove that.” 

The judge nodded. “Both Dr. Bloom and Dr. Lecter testified that you were suffering from encephalitis at the time when these murders took place. Neurological symptoms of the type of encephalitis that you suffered from are acute psychosis, hallucinations, and dissociative episodes. Both doctors asserted that the murders you are accused of committing occurred during dissociative episodes, and you were unaware that you were committing them and have no memory of them. Do you agree with this assessment, Mr. Graham?” 

Alana could only see a small portion of Will's face, but he was still trembling, still struggling. “No, Your Honor.” 

“You believe yourself to be completely innocent of all five of these murders, and that their real perpetrator has planted the evidence against you as a way to save himself?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

Oh God, Will... Alana interlaced her fingers together and bent her head down towards them, just listening to the sound of the judge and Will's voices. 

“Dr. Bloom indicated in her deposition that you might suffer from Asperger's Syndrome or a form of high-functioning autism. Was there any inquiry into this during your childhood?”

Will sounded surprised at the question. “No, Your Honor.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't attend school regularly. My father and I moved around a lot.” He was slipping; his voice shook slightly. “He didn't want me to think I was different than other children.” 

“Mr. Graham, you are thirty-nine years old, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Had you been diagnosed as a child, there might have been a chance you would be institutionalized, correct?”

“I'm not sure, Your Honor, but it was a possibility.” 

“You would have been separated from your father and probably labeled as permanently disabled.” The judge lifted his head, pointing his chin out towards the rest of the courtroom. “The bench behind you that is normally reserved for family members is empty except for Dr. Bloom, Mr. Graham. Is your father still alive?” 

“No, Your Honor. He died about ten years ago, when I was still a police officer in New Orleans.”

“It must have made him proud to see you as a law enforcement officer.” 

Will was quiet for a moment. The corners of his mouth had sagged involuntarily. “Yes, it did, Your Honor.” 

“Do you have any other family, Mr. Graham?”

“Not that I know, Your Honor.” 

“Do you have many people you would consider friends, Mr. Graham?”

“No, Your Honor.” 

Bailey was standing up, but the judge raised his hand. “Mr. Graham, this line of questioning is upsetting you.” 

Will swallowed hard and let out a deep breath. “I can continue, Your Honor.” 

“It is highly unusual for someone accused of serial murder to show emotion in open court. Usually, serial murderers are diagnosed as sociopaths, with an inability to experience certain emotions such as the type you're expressing here.

“Dr. Bloom also testified that your renown as a criminal profiler comes from a unique ability to empathize with a criminal mind. Lack of empathy is also a hallmark of sociopathic personalities.” 

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would you agree, Mr. Graham, that you do not fit the typical profile of a serial murderer?” 

Will hesitated again. “I'm not sure how to answer that, Your Honor.” 

“I would like you to answer honestly, using your considerable expertise as a criminal profiler.” 

Will took a breath to steady himself. “Most serial murderers are diagnosed with mental or personality disorders, but not all. Most lack empathy for their victims, which allows the killer to commit brutal acts upon them – the killer doesn't see them as human, and he is able to ignore their suffering, sometimes even enjoy it. However, some feel as normal people do, but those emotions are...misdirected. Anger or blame for traumatic events is shifted onto their victims, who become symbolic tools used by the killer to relieve their pain.” 

“What you just mentioned sounds like the profile you developed for the Minnesota Shrike, Garrett Jacob Hobbs. You were a registered guardian for his daughter, Abigail Hobbs, were you not, Mr. Graham?”

“Yes, I was, Your Honor.” 

“Why did you apply to be a guardian for her?”

“I felt sorry for her. Her parents were dead. Her father was believed to be a serial killer who murdered and cannibalized young girls who looked like her.” 

“You shot and killed her father.”

“Yes, I did, Your Honor. He had just murdered his wife and was in the process of slitting Abigail's throat.” 

“You killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs to save Abigail Hobbs from further injury.” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Even after you killed her father, you believed you could help her?”

“I'm not sure. But I did want to help her in any way I could.” 

“If you wanted to help her, why did you remove her from the hospital?” 

“I wanted _her_ help. I suspected that the copycat killer had a connection to her father's case, because the first two copycat murders were in Minnesota, based on murders Hobbs committed.” 

“Did you suspect Miss Hobbs knew who the copycat was?”

“I don't know...I couldn't figure it out. I thought that maybe, if we returned to the cabin where her father killed, that she would remember or say something that would help me form the connection I needed.” 

“Did she say anything to help?”

“No, Your Honor. By the time we arrived, my condition had deteriorated.” 

“Where did you last see Miss Hobbs?”

“In the cabin. She told me that I was sick and that I needed to go back to the hospital. She was frightened. I blanked out.” 

“You don't remember her leaving the cabin?”

“No, Your Honor.” 

“You don't remember taking her back to her parents' home?”

“No, Your Honor.” 

“What is the last thing you remember about that day with Miss Hobbs?”

“I woke up on an airplane in Dulles airport. I was confused, because Abigail wasn't with me. I asked a flight attendant where she was, but she said everyone had already disembarked from the plane.” 

“According to the FBI's investigation of your claim, no one on that plane reported any odd behavior from you. No one reported seeing blood on your hands or on your clothing. Do you remember anything else?”

“I went home, Your Honor. I was...sick. My fever had returned. I remember reaching home, going inside and changing my clothes, but I must have blanked out again. I don't remember anything until the next morning.” 

“The ear belonging to Miss Hobbs that was found in your sink – do you recall how it got there?” 

Will winced. “I vomited it up, Your Honor.” 

“There was very little evidence of it having contact with stomach acid, which would have dissolved it quickly. It must have not been in your stomach long.” 

“I don't think so, Your Honor.” 

“No clothing with Abigail Hobbs's blood on it was found in your home.”

“No, Your Honor.” 

“No clothing containing your own blood or your blood mixed with Abigail's DNA was found in your home.” 

“No, Your Honor.” 

“Yet there were scratches all over you – defensive wounds, deep enough to bleed, with DNA traced to Abigail Hobbs.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Her blood was found under your fingernails.” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“So, Mr. Graham, if you did indeed kill Miss Hobbs in Minnesota, that blood would have been on your hands and fingernails on the plane you took to return to Virginia. Yet no one reported it, either at the time or during the FBI investigation.” 

“No, Your Honor.” 

“Security footage of you at the Minneapolis-St. Paul and Dulles airports shows you wearing clean clothes, with no signs of blood on your skin or person.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“You also attempted to help another woman you're accused of killing. You called an ambulance for Georgia Madchen when she broke into your house.” 

“I did, Your Honor. She was very sick; she needed medical attention.” 

“You weren't angry at her for breaking into your home?”

“No, Your Honor. She was delusional, she suffered from a mental disorder that made her believe she was dead. She wanted help.” 

“And now you are accused of burning her alive two weeks later.” 

Will lowered his head. “Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Mr. Crawford testified in his deposition that you checked yourself out of the hospital against medical advice to aid in the investigation into Miss Madchen's death. Mr. Crawford believed her death to be a suicide, but it was you that insisted, quite vehemently, that she had been murdered. It was you that linked her death with three other murders that had been committed during the past five months in response to cases you and the Behavioral Analysis Unit were investigating. You insisted that, in your expert opinion, all four of these murders were committed by the same perpetrator.” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Did you have any idea of who might have perpetrated them?”

“I suspected it was someone close to the cases based on the profile I developed, but I did not have a solid suspect at that time.” 

“What made you so sure about your suspect – the one you believe has framed you for these murders?” 

“The evidence, Your Honor.” 

“There is also evidence that points to your guilt.” 

“Evidence requires a skilled interpreter to see the truth, Your Honor.” 

The judge nodded.“So speaks a forensics expert.” He paused for a moment. “Are you saying, Mr. Graham, that you believe the evidence in this case has been misinterpreted?” 

Will paused. “I'm not sure if I would say that, Your Honor.” 

“What would you say instead?”

“That there are serious inconsistencies worth noting.” 

“Mr. Graham, I request your expertise once more. What is your opinion on theories of planted or manipulated evidence?” 

“Most people don't have enough knowledge of forensics to convincingly plant evidence. There's something...off with the forensics, something incomplete, something inconsistent with the facts of the case.” 

“But the suspect you claim planted evidence in your home knew about forensics.” 

“He had some knowledge, yes.” 

“Advanced knowledge?”

“I don't think so, Your Honor. But enough.” 

“Enough for a jury of laymen to convict on, perhaps?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Mr. Graham, you have requested to enter an Alford plea of guilty of manslaughter with diminished capacity for all five of these murders. Why have you done this?” 

“Because I believe I would very likely be convicted of higher charges if these cases went to trial.”

“In spite of what you just said about evidence, you believe there is enough to convict you in a jury trial.” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“You are offering to plead guilty because of this, and entering an Alford plea in particular because you wish to maintain your innocence?” 

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Because you wholeheartedly believe that these crimes were perpetrated by someone else, and not by yourself in any way, shape, or form?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” 

“Mr. Graham, thank you for answering my questions.” The judge rose – the rest of the court rose with him – and retired to his chambers.

Alana walked toward the defense table. “Will, you did really well,” Bailey was saying. 

“Did I?” Will's voice had a hint of sarcasm, used to hide his fear and doubt. “Are we going to get a decision today?”

“We should, but it's all up to the judge. He can take as much time as he needs to deliberate. He might also want to meet with the prosecution and with me before making his final decision.” 

They all went back to the antechamber to wait. Alana gave Will the juice and water and protein bars she'd bought for him, but it was obvious that he was too nervous to eat much. Alana suspected he hadn't eaten much in a while. She certainly hadn't. 

The morning and then the early afternoon ticked away. Alana kept trying to get Will to eat, but to little avail. His tremors worsened as the day passed and she began holding one of his hands to keep him steady. She knew it was more than just nerves – withdrawal symptoms from his psychiatric medications were starting. 

“You okay?” she murmured to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm glad you're here.” He still hadn't spoken about what had transpired in the courtroom – he didn't try to explain himself, or justify himself. Alana noticed that a thunderstorm had started; rain streaked down the windows and the city of Baltimore was gray and clouded. 

Around two, Bailey was summoned to the judge's chambers. Alana tried to hide her nervousness for Will's sake, but it was growing late and she was thinking a decision that day was looking less and less likely. 

Three hours later, Bailey was still gone, and Will had yet to be summoned to the judge's chambers. Alana rose and called over his assistant. “Will's been deemed competent to stand trial,” she said quietly. “He should be in chambers with Bailey.”

Bailey's assistant nodded. “Yeah, he should be. I'm not sure why he hasn't been summoned in yet.” 

“Can you check?” 

“I'll try and see what's going on.” 

Bailey's assistant left. Alana returned to her chair next to Will. “Bailey's been gone a while,” he said. “That's not normal, is it?” 

“I'm not sure. I asked Bailey's assistant to check. You should be in there – it's your right.” 

After about half an hour, Bailey's assistant returned. He called Alana over. “There's a lot of shouting going on in there. It's heated. I can see why Bailey's kept Will out.” 

“They're _shouting?”_

“The prosecutors definitely are. It was hard to tell what they were saying, though. I wish I could tell you more, Dr. Bloom.” 

Alana nodded. “Thank you for checking.” 

She sat with Will for another hour. He was growing increasingly restless. Alana thought a walk might calm him, but she couldn't take him outside the room, so she walked with him around the chamber, slowly encircling it and stopping, when possible, to watch the rain outside the windows. 

“I want a cigarette so badly,” he muttered.

“I didn't know you smoked,” Alana said.

“I haven't for a long time, not since my dad died. Smoking was what killed him.” 

Alana nodded. “I smoked my way through grad school. I still want one whenever I go to a bar.” 

Will smiled a little. “Looks like we've got the same vices.” 

“Amongst many others, I'm sure.” 

Just after six, the chamber door opened and Bailey came in. His face was heavily guarded, but he didn't look angry. “Will, the judge has a decision,” he said. “It's time to go.”

Will turned to Alana and there was open fear in his face. Alana, too, felt herself fight for control of her emotions – she embraced Will and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever happens,” she whispered in his ear, so that only he could hear her, “I love you.” She felt Will nod against her. 

Bailey was ushering her out. “I'm right behind you,” she said as she grabbed her purse and walked out into the hallway. “I won't leave you.” 

She saw members of the press streaming into the courtroom, she saw members of the victims' families go in, but she couldn't go in, not yet. She ran to the ladies' room and locked herself in the disabled stall. 

She was trembling and her chest was heaving with barely contained sobs. The full weight of the past year and a half was hitting her – her anger at Jack and Hannibal for their negligence, her own guilt for distancing herself from Will when he was obviously unstable and growing worse, her hatred of Chilton, her fear for Will. _He won't be executed. He could get life. He could get twenty-five years. He won't be executed. He'll live. I'll get him moved. Chilton won't be head of Baltimore State Hospital forever._

She knew time was passing, that Will would be back in soon to hear the judge's decision, and she needed to be there. She placed her forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, not caring how dirty it probably was, and took deep breaths. _You can cry tonight,_ she thought, _but not now. You can cry and scream and throw things all you want tonight, but Will needs you now, he needs you in his corner because no one else is there._

Her legs felt a little stronger under her. She was relieved she hadn't cried much. She breathed deeply, in and out as she had with Will just a few hours earlier, and felt her pounding heart calm. She looked at herself in the mirror – she had gone pale and her eyes were red – but she knew she was out of time. 

She exited the bathroom, making a beeline for the courtroom door, when Hannibal stepped right into her path. “Hannibal,” she said, looking up at him. “I'm sorry, but we'll have to talk later. I really need to go inside.”

“You look upset,” he said mildly, evenly. 

“I'm fine,” she lied easily. “I really need to go inside.” 

“Alana,” he said, touching her arm. “You've done a good job caring for Will. I'm sure he's very grateful for your help.” 

She felt a surge of anger at Hannibal rise within her – damn him, it was half his fault they were here in the first place, he'd utterly bungled Will's treatment and should rightfully be facing a malpractice suit, and God only knew what he was up to with Chilton – but she bit her tongue. “Thank you,” she said, swallowing her anger and fighting to keep her voice even. 

“I hope you and Will get the result you're looking for,” he said. _Why won't he let me go?_ she thought. 

“Thank you, again, Hannibal,” she said. “I hope so too. I really should be going in now.” She sidestepped him and opened the courtroom door. 

The room was full, except for the front part reserved for the defendant's family, and the door to the side room where Will and Bailey were was just opening. Alana hurried to the front bench and practically dove into it, trying to remain calm. Her hands were still shaking. 

She looked up, and Will was looking right at her – he didn't smile, but he was searching for her gaze and she met it back, trying to convey all her love and hope to him. _It'll be okay,_ she mouthed to him, although she wasn't sure it would be okay at all. 

The bailiff announced the judge's entry – like before, they all rose and then sat once the judge had been seated, except for Will and Bailey. Alana felt nauseous. She didn't know where Hannibal was – she didn't think he had seated himself behind her, as he had done before, and she didn't want to turn around to look. 

The judge peered at Will over his reading glasses for a long time; at least a minute. Alana could see Will shaking – his tremors were getting worse with each passing hour. He wasn't going to hold up much longer. 

The judge removed his glasses and laid them on his podium. “Mr. Graham,” he said, “I have decided not to accept your plea of guilty of manslaughter with diminished capacity for the deaths of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, Donald Sutcliffe, Georgia Madchen, and Abigail Hobbs.” 

Alana was horrified. _No, no, no, no, no....we can't go to trial, we can't, he'll be sentenced to death..._

The judge continued. “I have decided, instead, to dismiss the grand jury indictment against you and recommend that all five of these murders be reinvestigated in light of your testimony.”

At this, there was a surge of energy in the courtroom – shocked gasps, noises, muttering and murmuring. Alana herself made an inarticulate noise and put both hands over her mouth. She glanced over at Will, who had paled so much that Bailey had grabbed his arm. 

The judge pounded his gavel for order. “Ladies and gentlemen, please, I have not concluded. Mr. Graham, I wish to remind you that there are no guarantees that you will not be indicted for these murders again. DNA evidence connecting them to you still exists. But, I believe you have presented a compelling argument that proves that there is a fundamental instability in the forensic evidence of these cases.

“While this investigation is ongoing, I will order your immediate release from Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The terms of your release will require you to undergo intensive psychiatric care with Dr. Bloom. 

“Do you have anything you would like to say, Mr. Graham?” 

The courtroom went silent again. Alana could see Will – he was trembling, nearly overcome with emotion. Bailey was now firmly gripping his arm. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said quietly. “Sincerely. Thank you.” 

The judge nodded toward Will – not unkindly, Alana thought – and retired. 

Bailey smiled at Will and gave him a strong handshake and a fond pat on his arm. “Congratulations, Will.” 

“Thank you, Eric. I appreciate everything you've done for me.” 

“Keep in touch, all right? This isn't over. We've still got a lot of work to do to keep you out.”

“I will.” He turned toward Alana, who had come around the courtroom divider to hug him. “Alana,” he whispered. He hugged her back tightly. 

“Anything you want at Chilton's?” she said in his ear. She was smiling – she felt giddy with relief. 

“No,” Will said, chuckling a little. “Not at all.” 

“Will, Alana, let's go into the other room,” Bailey said. Alana was aware that the courtroom was still full of people, and that the Boyle and Schurr families were still seated. Their faces were twisted in anger and they were glaring at Will and shaking their heads. 

Alana followed Will into the antechamber. He was shaking badly and seemed to have trouble walking. “You okay?” she asked, gripping his arm as Bailey had done. 

“No, I think I need to sit down.”

“Okay, we'll sit.” She led Will to the nearest chair and sat down next to him, grasping his hand. It was wonderful to see his hands free, without restraints or handcuffs. 

“I'm sorry,” Will said. “Alana, you testified for me and I threw it all away.” 

“It's okay. You took the risk and laid it all out. That's what got you freed.” 

“He believed me,” Will whispered, awe in his voice. 

Bailey returned with a Coke and a styrofoam cup. “Drink it all, Will. You're shaking.” 

Will was still in shock. “I really don't have to go back to Chilton's?” 

“No, you've been released,” Alana said. “You can go home.”

Will still looked confused. _It's because he doesn't know where home is anymore._

Bailey said, “Listen, there's press swarming outside. I'll give them a statement. Will, anything in particular you want to say? You can write down a statement for me and I'll read it.” 

“I don't know...my hands won't stop shaking.” 

“I can write it down if you dictate it to me,” Alana said. Bailey gave her a yellow legal pad. 

“Yeah, that's a good idea,” Will said to Bailey. “I don't think you should be reading my handwriting right now.” 

Together, the three of them worked out a short statement, conveying Will's gratitude to the judge and his sorrow for the families of the victims. Bailey shook both of their hands again. “I don't know what happened in chambers, Eric, but thank you for any role you had in this,” Alana said. 

“Will did it all, really,” he said. “I'll admit, I was shocked when I heard what he was testifying, but not surprised he'd never told me.”

“In hindsight, if you'd known, do you think we should have gone to trial?” Will asked.

“Absolutely not, Will. The risk was too high. We made the right decision. Don't doubt yourself, okay?” He nodded towards Alana. “Dr. Bloom, get him drunk tonight. He needs it.” 

Alana laughed and gave Bailey a warm hug. “Thank you so much, Eric.” 

Bailey gathered his files and briefcase and left, his assistant in tow. Will and Alana were alone – the orderlies from Baltimore State Hospital had left, since Will was now a free man. 

“I can't go back to my house, can I?” he asked. “It's been repossessed.”

“Yeah, it has,” Alana said, sadly. 

“Where will I go? To a hospital?” 

“No more hospitals for now, unless you need one. You can stay with me and the dogs. We'll stop by the storage unit where your things are and you can get whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything, Alana.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, tenderly – Alana thought her heart would burst. She hadn't felt this way in a long time – she'd forgotten how it felt to be happy, truly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not an attorney, nor do I play one on TV.


	5. Chapter Five

Alana and Will waited together for another hour. She hoped the crowds would dissipate and she could get Will downstairs and to her car with minimal attention. The afternoon thunderstorm had passed and now it was evening. The city lights were twinkling. 

The hallway was nearly empty when they left – a few people stared at them – and Alana asked a waiting bailiff if she and Will could have an escort out of the building. He agreed, and they met a security guard on the first floor. Alana noticed that Will was still unsteady on his feet: part of it, she knew, was exhaustion, but she also knew that his withdrawal symptoms were growing worse. She wrapped an arm around him, trying to cloak her concern in affection. “It's okay,” she whispered to him. “Lean against me if you have to.” 

“I'll be all right,” he murmured. “Just dizzy.” 

She was glad they had asked for an escort, because the moment she and Will stepped outside, there were reporters and photographers waiting for them. She heard, distantly, a roar of shouting, but kept her eyes ahead, her arm wrapped around Will, steadying him. The security guard was busy trying to keep the cameras from hitting either her or Will and injuring them. 

The walk to her car seemed to take hours. The roaring was growing louder behind them, and their security guard had called for backup. She held Will tighter. “We're almost there,” she told him, having to raise her voice above the din. “Just keep going. Don't look back.” She heard a guard shouting _“Back up! Back up!”_ behind them – she felt a surge of fear and looked at Will, but he was staring straight ahead, he wasn't losing it – and then, in another minute or two, they had reached the garage where Alana had parked her car. The security guards called an elevator just for them, rode up with them, and then escorted them to her car. Alana tipped the guards generously for their courtesy – they were hesitant to take her money, at first, but she insisted – and within a few minutes, she and Will were driving through downtown Baltimore in the quiet interior of her car. She put on the radio – something peppy, she figured. But by the time they'd reached the last stop before the highway and Alana turned to Will and asked if he wanted something to eat, he was asleep, his head lolling forward. At a red light she grabbed a sweater tossed in her backseat and put it behind his head as a makeshift pillow. 

He jerked awake about twenty minutes later, when she was on the interstate. “Hey,” she said when she saw him move. “You weren't asleep for long.” 

“Please stop the car.” He was panting. _“Please.”_

She switched lanes – difficult to do in Northern Virginia rush-hour highway traffic – and pulled onto the right shoulder of the highway. “I'm stopping, I'm stopping...” 

As soon as the car had stopped in the emergency lane, Will stumbled out, then weaved through the grassy embankment as if he was drunk. He went down to his knees. Alana ran to him, calling his name. Her immediate fear was a seizure, so she was almost relived to see him heaving bile into the grass. 

She knelt next to him, stroking his back until the sickness passed. She could feel tension in his muscles, feel him trembling. She felt his temperature – his skin was clammy, but not hot – and took his pulse, which was racing. In her shock and elation that Will had been released, she had been eager to get him home, but now she realized she hadn't been at all ready for him to go there. “We'll go pick up your things when you're feeling better,” she said. “I need to get your meds.” 

They walked back to her car very slowly, her supporting him with her arms on both of his shoulders – the unsteadiness that she'd noticed in the courthouse more evident now – and she reclined the passenger seat so that he could lay down. She climbed into the driver's seat, turned up the heater, and called Chilton. 

“Dr. Bloom!” he exclaimed in his smarmy voice. “How nice to hear from you. Interesting turnout in court today – it's been all over the news.” 

“Will's having withdrawal symptoms,” she said, without preamble. 

“That's odd. He was supposed to have received his medication before he left.”

“Well, he didn't,” she lied smoothly. “I'm going to email your assistant the name and address of a pharmacy so that his medication can be filled. I need you to email me his med schedule and dosage information since I'll be taking over his care. My contact information will be in his visitor's file.” She hung up, not interested in hearing another syllable of Chilton's voice, then turned toward Will. His eyes were closed and he was still sweating and trembling. “Will, you haven't taken your meds?” 

“I did what you asked me to,” he murmured. 

“Thank you. You're beginning to withdraw – that's why you don't feel well. I'm sorry to put you through this, but I needed you clear-headed for court.”

He opened his eyes and peered at her. “Was this all part of some grand scheme of yours, Alana?”

“Chilton and Hannibal aren't the only ones capable of schemes,” she muttered. She picked up her phone again and pressed the email icon, tapping out a quick email to Chilton's assistant, then checking her inbox. “Chilton's supposed to be emailing me everything you've been taking.” Nothing yet, not surprising. “We're going to head back onto the highway, okay? Sleep if you can. Let me know if you need me to pull over again.” He closed his eyes once more. 

It took another half-hour for Chilton's email to arrive in Alana's inbox. When she opened and read it, she fought the urge to scream: there were six medications on the list – three were antipsychotics, and none were the antidepressants she'd recommended. No wonder Will had been out of his mind. _Chilton, you motherfucker,_ she thought. _I'm going to kill you. So help me God, I'm going to drive to that hospital and finish what Gideon started._ She didn't even want to think of the part Hannibal might have had to play in this. Better to blame Chilton, for now. 

It was getting late – she made one last call to her student assistant, Serafina, and told her to cancel any classes and appointments she had booked for the rest of the week, as well as send her the contact information for her preferred detox specialist, a doctor she knew from Johns Hopkins. 

Night had fallen by the time she pulled into the pharmacy parking lot. Will was dozing; she decided not to move him, and locked the car securely. She went straight to the pharmacy counter, but Will's medication wasn't ready. She ran through the pharmacy, trying to think of what he would need. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. _Underwear. Socks. Pajamas – fuck, they won't have those. Deodorant. Soap. Shaving cream and razors. A toothbrush._

After paying a four-hundred-dollar bill at the pharmacy counter – Chilton got another silent stream of curses – she collected her purchases and walked briskly out the door. When she reached the parking lot, she saw there were people – a lot of people -- hovering by the passenger side of her car, taking pictures of Will. 

“Hey!” she shouted. A few of them turned, one or two ran away, but the majority did not look up. “ _Hey!_ Get away from my car!” 

One of them aimed a video camera at her. “Dr. Bloom! Do you care to make a statement about today's court proceedings?” 

Another followed. “Do you believe Will Graham is innocent?”

“We've already made our statement! Leave him alone!” The photographers continued to take pictures; she saw that, inside the car, Will had raised his hand to try to shield his face from them. Alana shouted, “I said, leave him alone or I'll call the fucking cops!” 

The photographers refused to stop. “This is public property, lady!” 

“Fuckin' crazy bitch,” another muttered. 

Alana unlocked the car and got into the driver's seat, locking the doors and starting the car as fast as she could. The engine turned over and she put the car in reverse. “They had better fucking move or I'm running them down,” she muttered. She began to back up, but they didn't move. _“Move, assholes!”_ she screamed, not caring at all how she looked or sounded. That, combined with the steady but sure backing-up of her car, finally caused the crowd to disperse. She pulled out onto the highway toward home. 

“You're having a bad day, Alana,” Will said from beside her. He was looking right at her. There was something in the depths of his eyes – she couldn't tell what it was, but it made her sad. 

“No, it's a good day. This is a really good day. You're going home with me. I'm just putting out a lot of fires. I can handle it.” She let out a long breath to calm herself. “We're almost home. I can give you your meds there and you'll feel better quickly.” 

“Thank you for taking care of me. It's been a long time since anyone cared about me,” he murmured. “Dr. Lecter used to say he cared, but he didn't, not at all.” 

“We'll talk more about what happened, but I want you to rest, okay?” _You're not making sense any more._ “I'd really like to know about your dad. I don't want to know about him as your doctor...I just want to know about him.” 

“As my friend?”

“Yes,” she said. She grasped his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back. 

There were more reporters, complete with news vans, camped out on the road in front of her house. As soon as she drove up, they began to take pictures and shout at the car. Luckily for them, they weren't blocking her driveway; at this point, she was so exhausted and angry that she didn't trust herself not to react. She heard the cameras clicking as she got out of her car, walked over to the passenger side, and guided Will out of the car. The reporters were shouting at her, at Will – his tremors had gotten worse. She fumbled with her keys, saying, “They can't cross my property line or I can call the police. Once we're inside, we're safe.” 

She opened the door and practically shoved Will inside, slamming it shut behind her. The dogs were responding to the noise and their scents – when they smelled Will, they went crazy, howling and running around in circles. 

Alana laughed, genuinely. “Look, it's your dad! He's home!” 

She thought Will's face would crack from his smile. He knelt down to greet them and was covered in a swarm of whining fur, each dog wanting attention. They were licking every bit of his skin they could find. Half of them had rolled onto their backs, wanting belly rubs. Alana stepped in, kneeling down next to Will and trying to calm them so that they didn't devour him alive. 

“Alana, thank you...” He was looking right at her and there were tears in his eyes. 

“They're all here, they're all fine,” she said, rubbing his arm. “It was hard at first having so many at once, but they're good. I love them.” She began to pet Missy, the ugliest of the dogs and Alana's particular favorite. “That's right, Missy, Auntie Alana loves you.”

It took a few minutes to placate the dogs enough to move, but gradually, Alana took off her coat and began to turn on the lights. The dogs were still jumping around Will and running in excited circles in her foyer, and he was still greeting them enthusiastically. 

Alana smiled at him and ran a gentle hand through his hair. “When you're ready, get those clothes off and lay down on the couch.”

Will looked up at her, embarrassed. “I don't have anything else to wear.”

“There weren't any pajamas in the drugstore, so we'll have to go tomorrow to pick you up a few things.” Her smile widened. “Unless you want to borrow one of my robes?” 

“That's probably not a good idea.”

“Yeah, I think you'd look like the Hulk.” She zipped off her boots and stood in her stockinged feet. “Clothes, meds, then food.” 

By the time Alana had changed into her own pajamas, Will had undressed and was sitting on the sofa. The smaller dogs were snuggling up next to him while the larger ones curled at his feet. “They've forgotten me already,” Alana said, faking a pout. 

“I doubt that,” Will said. “They'll never forget you.” He nodded towards his court clothes, which were folded over a chair. “I didn't know what to do with those.” 

“I'll put them upstairs later. Don't worry about it. I'm going to go get your medication ready. Watch some TV and relax.” She switched on the television and looked for something that would calm Will and take his mind off the day's events. She finally settled on Animal Planet. 

She checked her email on her phone in the kitchen, tapping out an email to her detox specialist and forwarding him Will's med schedule and dosage information. She decided to give him his regular dosages until the specialist could return her email. 

Returning to the living room, Alana handed Will a glass of water and a handful of pills. “Mmm, dinner,” he said. 

“It's _not_ dinner.” 

“Feels like it sometimes.” He started to take the meds, swallowing one at a time. 

“I have to detox you. It'll probably take about a month, maybe longer. You shouldn't be too ill but you might have some symptoms. Psychotropic medications are very potent and you've been on some of the strongest.”

“Should I be in a hospital?”

Alana shrugged. “People detox at home all the time. My colleague will be assisting me with your detox. If you have a bad reaction or you become sick, you might have to be hospitalized, but I'm hoping that won't happen. I'm sure you've had enough of hospitals.”

She brought down pillows and blankets from her bedroom for Will and heated up a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for each of them. They spent the rest of the evening on her sofa, watching Animal Planet. Alana purposefully avoided the news. After a few hours, exhaustion set in and she nodded off. 

She woke up disoriented: she heard the television and saw that the lights were still on. Will was sitting straight up, the dogs curled at his feet. His posture was strange – he was listing to the left just a little, and his mouth was open. 

“Will? You okay?”

“Yeah,” he half-grunted, nodding. 

She slid down the couch to sit closer to him. He was exhausted, she could tell, but he wasn't laying down. “Come to bed with me,” she said. “I have a big bed – it'll be completely platonic, I swear.” 

He didn't crack a smile. “I'm fine. Honestly.”

“You've been sleeping on a cot for a year. You deserve to sleep in a real bed.” He shook his head. 

Should she push? She knew that there was trauma behind his behavior, and trauma felt safe to her. With trauma, she knew what she was doing. “What's wrong, Will? Why are you afraid?” She kept her tone soft and gentle, carefully measured. 

A few tears trickled down his cheeks. She reached over, very slowly, very gently, and lay her hand on his shoulder. 

“I...I don't think I can sleep in the dark any more,” he said. Terrible shame in his voice, fear of weakness. Fear of her judgment. 

“I'll leave on a light. You can even have the TV on upstairs, it doesn't bother me. I fall asleep with it on most of the time.” 

Will shook his head again. More tears were coming. Alana knew she had to make him feel safe enough to let out his emotions or they would eat him up inside. “It's okay,” she whispered, and began to hold his hand. “Let yourself cry. It's okay.” 

“I don't know if I'll be able to stop.” 

“I'm not afraid. I can swim.” 

He began to cry, for real this time. “I have nowhere to go, my house is gone...everything's gone.” 

She rubbed his shoulder. “I don't want you to worry about that. You have a home with me, for as long as you need one. I mean it.” She understood now, after she'd heard about his childhood – Will had had very little stability in his life, very little to call safe and call his own. His home had meant the world to him, and now it was gone, and he was floundering. “I'm sorry about your house. I really am. I know how much it meant to you.” 

“I don't even have my wallet, my ID. I don't know where most of my things are – in evidence, I guess, so I'll never get them back. I don't have any money. If this case goes back to court I won't be able to pay my attorney. And who the hell is going to hire me when my face is all over the news as a serial killer?” 

Alana squeezed his hand. “I don't want you to focus on that right now, okay? We had a miracle today, a one-in-a-million shot. No one – _no one_ – expected you to get out of prison time. You were facing twenty-five years minimum this morning, maybe the rest of your life, and now you're out. You get a second chance. And you and I, we're going to make sure that you never return to that hellhole again.” She rose, very gently pulling him towards her. “Now, come to bed. You're not spending whenever on my sofa.” 

He rose, still holding her hand. She turned off the television and they collected the pillows and blankets. “We'll be upstairs in just a minute,” she said. A few of the dogs started to whine. “No,” Will said to them. “You know you're supposed to stay down here.”

“Uh, about that,” Alana said. 

“What about it?” he asked. 

“I've been letting the dogs sleep in my room.” 

Will paused. “All of them?” 

Alana couldn't help but laugh. “They all won't fit on the bed, but whomever wanted to.” She saw his face and laughed harder. “They were _lonely_ , Will! They missed you! I felt sorry for them!” 

“Well, they're certainly not sleeping with both of us in the bed, unless you dislike being able to move at night.” 

“Okay, Cesar Millan. Whatever you say.” 

The dogs followed them upstairs. Ike, the oldest, had hip problems, so Alana knew to wait for him at the top of the stairs. Will stroked and patted his long furry body lovingly when he reached the top. 

Once they were in the bedroom, Alana turned on the bathroom light and left the door halfway open. “Is that enough, or do you need more?” 

“I think that's okay. Thank you.”

They climbed into bed together, Missy taking her usual spot next to Alana's stomach, and Charlie the spry Jack Russell mutt settling by Will's legs. The other dogs settled comfortably on the carpet. Alana faced Will and began stroking his face and running a hand through his short hair. His face was still a little wet from his tears. 

“You all right?” she whispered. He nodded. “It's quiet here,” he murmured. She continued to stroke his face and hair, trying to calm him, when he suddenly spoke up. “Can I kiss you again?”

She laughed. It felt good to laugh – she hadn't done it much in the last year. “Yes, you can kiss me.” 

Will had been locked in a cage for a year; he was hungry for human contact, even though it normally made him uncomfortable. But she felt arousal herself as his hand ran along her side, gently around her ass, and then down her thigh, which he gripped. _I like his hands,_ she thought. _He has strong hands – sure hands, working hands._

She lifted his t-shirt a little and ran her hands up and down his back, tracing his skin with the edges of her nails. His cock was limp, but that didn't surprise her – it was another side effect of Chilton's med regiment. She focused on his kissing, which in spite of his dysfunction, was growing more heated. Perhaps it was a good thing they couldn't have intercourse right now...

They stopped just short of taking off their clothes – it was hard to stop, but both of them knew they had to. Will couldn't perform and Alana wasn't ready to take their relationship to that level yet, no matter how much she wanted to. 

“I don't think this is fitting into your definition of platonic,” Will murmured.

“I have a very liberal definition,” she murmured back with a small laugh. “But no more than this, not yet,” she said, more seriously, and Will nodded. They lay in bed, stroking each other, until she heard Will's breathing even out. Then she allowed herself to fall back asleep. 

Alana woke at seven to give Will his meds; he took them dutifully and went back to sleep. Winston and Ike had taken her spot in the bed, craving her warmth and Will's presence. 

She was in the kitchen, looking through her purse for her phone when she remembered Will's journal. She'd completely forgotten it in all the excitement from yesterday. It was still in her purse, though it had settled towards the bottom under the weight of her wallet. 

Will was still sleeping soundly upstairs, caught in the undertow of exhaustion and relief and six different psychiatric medications. She made a cup of tea and opened the journal. 

_Dear Alana,_ it began.

_You gave me this journal, I think, to help me try to understand and process my feelings, but all I can think about is you. So, if you'll forgive me, I've decided to use your gift for another purpose – to tell you how much I love you. I can't seem to do it right whenever I'm in front of you, but maybe, if I write it down, it will come out the way I really mean._

_I understand that it is completely foolish for me to love you – not only have you rejected me (no offense, I understand why you did it), but I'm facing what will likely be the rest of my life in a hellhole that is run by a man more insane than half the inmates here. No, scratch that – I'd say three-quarters. At least the inmates are honest in their insanity._

_There is honesty in insanity, I've realized. When one is believed to be insane – when one is treated as if one was insane – every action one commits is attributed to that insanity, even if those actions are not socially acceptable, even if they don't make sense. Perhaps, then, I love you because I am insane._

_But I don't feel insane. Loving you doesn't feel insane; it feels natural and good. I don't know what to make of it but maybe, if I think it through more, I can come up with an answer. Or perhaps, love, like all great mysteries, is inherently unanswerable. It just is. _

_Thank you for the books. The only book I've been allowed to keep so far is a copy of the Bible, which I've spent a lot of time reading, but it has supplied no answers to my questions. Many of the inmates talk about God, speak the name of Jesus in their sleep and their torment, but I think this place is somewhere he has forgotten._

More entries. _Dear Alana, I've been dreaming of horrible things lately. Murder scenes I've visited come alive, except that I am the victim now and not the killer. I am shot, stabbed, beaten, raped. I always know I am myself when I wake, which is good, but I'm scared of what my brain is capable of producing, or perhaps reproducing. It was a mistake for me to have gone back in the field. Everything bad that's happened to me in the past year and a half can be traced back to helping Jack find the killer of eight college girls. (Everything except you.)_

_But last night I dreamed I was home again in Wolf Trap, in the yard, staring at my house and the twinkling lights. The grass was tall in my dream – I could feel its scratchy velvetness under my hands, and it was waving in the wind like water. My house was like a white ship, the windows glowing like portholes, and I imagined that, if I walked inside, I would find a wheel that would allow me to sail it somewhere far away. I was sad when I woke up._

_Dear Alana, Jack sent Beverly to me with a case. He's been sending her to me all year with cases. I haven't told you. I haven't told you so many things. I'm sorry. I like to see her, and she's still decent to me in spite of everything, but I'm conflicted about taking the cases. Why does Jack want input from a psychopath? I don't understand how I can be credible enough to solve cases for him, but not credible enough for him to believe me when I say I didn't kill anyone._

_Beverly told me Dr. Lecter has taken my place as Jack's favored consultant; he must be very pleased with himself. He was always very curious to see how the FBI worked. (I'll stop here. I don't want this to be about him.) I wish I could tell Jack to fuck off, but I don't want to say that to Beverly because she idolizes him, as mistaken in her idolatry as I think she is. She says he keeps sending me cases because he knows I want to help people, but, again, I still don't understand why he doesn't believe me, if that's true. If I really had no regard for human life, why would I help catch murderers? Maybe he really thinks I'm bored, but I'd rather occupy myself with happier things than murder. I wish he'd come instead, so I can tell him to fuck off to his face, but I think he's too much of a coward to do that._

_Dear Alana, Chilton tried to hypnotize me today. I couldn't help it; I laughed at him and it made him angry. I really think he came close to hitting me. I wonder why he didn't; it's not like it would have made a difference anyway. He's completely insane. After his utter failure as a doctor – he's already had many failures as a human being – he wanted to know how I “do it.” I told him I didn't understand what he means. I explained that whatever it is that I “do,” according to him, is not a parlor trick that anyone can copy. I hate it most of the time. I hate that understanding the horror of murder is something I'm apparently very good at. I wish I could just empathize with kind, nice, and decent people all day. I like thinking about you. I imagine you with your students, listening to them and speaking to them with your gentle voice. They must love you. I do. I imagine you at the grocery store, buying pasta and vegetables and milk, maybe mulling over cookies in the bakery before putting them back. (You should buy them.) I imagine you at sunset in your yard with the dogs. The light of the setting sun turns your hair red-gold and, as it sets and evening falls, the air sparkles with fireflies. I do this for hours sometimes. It feels like I am part of your life in some small way, and I like to feel that way. It's very lonely here. I never knew true loneliness until I came here._

_Alana – I am very sick today and my thoughts are jumbled and unfocused. The nurse was here to see me again but there's nothing she can do, they've already treated me with everything that would help. I wish you were here to talk to. I wish you were here every day. I feel sometimes that I want to be more than with you or part of you, I want to be inside of you, like I am a child again and you are the locked house that keeps me safe, the only place that makes sense in a senseless world._

_My name is Will Graham. I can't sleep and I don't know what time it is – there is little sense of time here. I am an inmate on the maximum security ward of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I am accused of five murders. I am likely to die here. I am innocent. My cell is fourteen paces wide and seven paces deep. The man in the cell two down from me who enjoys screaming at you is a rapist and torturer. I don't want to tell you the details – I don't want to know the details, but he screams them all day and it's impossible to be near him and not know. My neighbor (also a rapist, but of children) cannot stop masturbating. I can hear him moaning and the friction of his hands on his penis. I don't know what he masturbates to; there's nothing arousing here to a sane and rational person. I don't want to know his thoughts, either. I don't know why I'm telling you this; it's disgusting and horrible and I want to keep you safe and beautiful in my mind. I want to sleep, forever if I have my choice._

_I wonder if dying is like slipping into an endless dream. Maybe life is the dream and death the reality – that's what the religious often say. All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, as Poe says. I imagine that heaven is my house in Wolf Trap, with my dogs and the night sky and the warm lights, and that you will be there with me someday, whenever._

_Alana, if God exists, I hope he pities me and allows me to go home when I die. That's all I pray for anymore._

_Dear Alana, I'm realizing that this journal is becoming a very long suicide note. I think a lot about suicide, more than I'm willing to tell you in person. Suicidal ideation has become part of my pathology. I don't want to talk about things like this when I see you. I know you're a doctor and you're used to hearing things like this, but I still see you as a refuge, a beautiful place that must be kept safe from the demons within and without. But if I do it, please don't be angry with me. I know how much you hate suicide. Now I understand that it is a release from pain. It's said that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but what if the problem isn't temporary? What if the problem is the fact that you can only see the rest of your life as a living hell? Would you blame me then? Could you understand? I hope you could. I know you are capable of so much compassion, so much empathy, more than you realize, and that's one of the reasons why I love you._

_I love you so much. I can write it better than I can say it – when I try to say it, it comes out all mixed-up – so I'll just write it today. I love you. I love you. I love you. You are the stars and the sea and everything good. I love you. I love you._

There were more entries – dozens more, the journal was nearly full – but Alana was blinded by tears. She ran upstairs and there he was, still in bed, sleeping peacefully surrounded by his dogs, a miracle of fate or chance or luck or God or whatever was running the world. 

She got under the covers with him, hugged him to her chest. He roused. “What happened? What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. Nothing. Go back to sleep.” She wrapped her arms around him and cried tears of sorrow and relief and joy.


	6. Chapter Six

There were still reporters and news vans camped at the edge of Alana's property when she chanced a look out of the front window. She looked closer – to her horror, there were now people holding signs proclaiming “INSANE SERIAL MURDERER GOES FREE = TRAVESTY” and “JUSTICE 4 BOYLE FAMILY.” Alana called the police. 

A few minutes after she ended her call, Will came downstairs. He was freshly showered but still in his underwear and his hospital-issue undershirt. “What's wrong?”

“The police are coming --” Will paled.

“No, Will, I'm sorry. That came out all wrong. They're not coming for you, but there are people outside with signs and I don't want them on my property.” 

“The reporters are still there?”

She sighed. “More than ever.” 

“We need to watch the news and see what they're saying.”

“Will, no. I don't want to see it and I don't want _you_ to see it.” 

“I can handle it,” he muttered. 

There was a knock on the door. Alana told Will to go upstairs while she spoke to the officers. She knew the police couldn't forcibly move the press or protesters, but they agreed to keep a cruiser present for her and Will's protection. She was concerned – she had the rest of the week and the weekend to stay here with Will, but she had to return to work on Monday, and she was afraid of leaving him alone with protesters outside her door. What if more came? What if they shattered her windows or tried to break into her home? She wasn't sure how far their vitriol would take them, what they were willing to do to him for the sake of justice. 

After the officers left, Will came back downstairs and they sat through about half an hour of news before the coverage returned to his case. The only still picture the news outlets had of Will was his mugshot, taken during his illness. His eyes were glassy and he looked terrible. They showed footage of him in court, looking neater and clean-shaven, but still visibly pale. Bailey was shown reading Will's statement in her handwriting off a sheet of yellow legal paper. There was Jack, looking thinner and tired – Bella's illness had drained him of much of his vigor. He was saying, “The Bureau has thoroughly investigated Mr. Graham's claims and has not found any proof to substantiate them. We stand by the evidence we have used in this case, and we will use the time necessary to strengthen our case against Mr. Graham and ensure that justice is served.” There were Cassie Boyle's parents, weeping over their daughter and blaming Will for the mysterious death of their son, even though he hadn't been charged in that murder. There was Marissa Schurr's mother, crying too, showing a picture of her daughter, so much like Abigail, saying Will had murdered both Marissa and her best friend and was now free and that there was no justice in the world. 

Will watched, silently. Alana had thought he looked younger yesterday, clean-shaven and with short hair, but that was a lie. He looked older, much older – ancient, even. “Alana?” he finally asked. His voice was quiet and he looked depressed. 

“Yes?”

He turned his head toward her. “Are you afraid of me?”

Her heart went to ice in her chest. She _had_ been afraid of him, once, when he was acting irrationally, when he was sick and needed treatment. But now? How did she feel now? “No, I'm not afraid of you,” she said, finally, and it was the truth. “I wouldn't have brought you here if I was.” 

“Do you still think I'm delusional?” 

She paused for a long while. Her rational mind screamed _yes_ – but there was a part of her, a part that grew stronger every day, that believed that Will was completely sane. But if that was true...“I don't know,” she said, and her own voice sounded feeble and unconvincing.

Will got up, abruptly, from the sofa. “I have to leave.”

“No – where are you going to go?”

“I'll be okay. I've lived rough before. I'll survive.” 

Alana also got up from the sofa. “It's cold, and you don't have any warm clothes. You don't have any money. Your picture's on every news station. You can't leave.” He was still turning away from her – he looked lost, like he didn't know what to do with himself. She approached him gently, recognizing his fear. “Please understand – I'm _confused_. It seems like there's a bunch of games going on and I don't know what any of them mean or why they're being played.”

His voice was harder now, annoyed. “Do you think _I'm_ playing a game with you?” 

“No. I think you're sincere.”

“But not _right?”_

She sighed. “Your claim against Hannibal is difficult to believe.”

“A federal judge believed it credible enough to let me go! Do you think I played him? Do you think I lied to him?” 

“You told him what you believe to be the truth.”

“But not _the_ truth?” Alana sighed, but he went on. “According to you, I've been given antipsychotics for months. If I had any kind of psychosis, those meds should have knocked it out of me, right? That's how psychiatric medicine works, doesn't it? It switches off what's malfunctioning and turns on what needs to function.”

“Very simplistically, yes.” 

“Do you believe I'm psychotic?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But yet I can still be delusional?”

Alana paused for a moment before answering him. “They're not necessarily the same thing, Will.” 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Alana, people have been telling me I'm crazy and unstable my entire life. You know what a year in chains and cages in a fucking hell-on-earth mental institution taught me? That I'm _not_ unstable, not more than anyone else would be that does what I do! I am _not_ crazy! I'm different than other people – I can't help that – but different doesn't mean crazy! You, of all people, should know that! 

“I had a job, I had a home, I had a _life_ – and it was all taken from me in a moment because _your friend_ planted evidence in my home to cover for _his crimes._ That is the truth. I'm not making it up. I _know_ it. Hannibal Lecter is a _parasite_ and he would have thrown me in prison for the rest of my life to gawk and smirk at me like I was in a zoo. You think Chilton's evil? Chilton's stupid and petty. Lecter is evil.” 

Alana just stared at him, saying nothing. Will rubbed his face. “You can't see it yet,” he muttered, half to her and half to himself. “I understand. He's such a good sociopath – he masquerades well. No one can see him for what he is. He's so believable. That's why he was so hard to catch. That's why I didn't realize he was playing with me until it was too late. I fell for him, too. I thought he was my friend, too. I can't blame you for that.” 

Alana was still silent, watching him. Will's talk about Hannibal masquerading stirred something inside of her. “Will, there was more than one reason I asked you to stop taking your meds. One reason was what I told you – that I needed you clear for court.”

“Your note said you thought Dr. Lecter was involved in Chilton's plans.”

“Yes. Chilton told me that he had changed your diagnosis in response to what Hannibal was telling him from your sessions together.”

“What did he change it to?”

“Dissociative identity disorder.”

He nodded. “Multiple personalities.”

“Chilton was thrilled, of course – a true DID patient, especially a male, is so rare that many psychologists don't believe they exist. They believe therapists create them through bad hypnosis and experimental treatments. That diagnosis, combined with your empathy and your – I don't even know if it's autism, I don't know what it is, really – would make you an ideal subject for study. If Chilton had you, he'd be powerful, famous even, in the psychiatric community. He'd write papers and books. He could sell the book rights and make a lot of money – Will Graham, the genius FBI profiler on the trail of a serial killer, finds himself at the end of the trail. A compelling story. Everyone interested in abnormal psychology would want to meet with you. I mean, the BAU used to cream themselves over you _before_ you were accused of serial murder. 

“But you don't have DID, Will. _I_ know you don't. DID doesn't get better on its own. Your alters would have shown up much earlier, been out more often. They don't come out to kill people, that's Jekyll and Hyde stuff. They come out to protect the patient from trauma. You would have had a long history of losing time and memories, not just a few months. We briefly thought it was a possibility when you were first arrested, but once you were diagnosed with encephalitis and you got better with treatment, it was obvious that your psychosis was only temporary. I thought Hannibal and I agreed on this, but when I learned he didn't and he had never told me, I knew something was wrong. We were supposed to agree, for your sake. Not agreeing on a diagnosis would be risky for your defense.” 

“So you acted.” 

“Yes. I did what I could, but what happened in court was luck.”

Will shook his head. “No, it wasn't. It wasn't luck at all.” 

There was a long pause where both of them were silent, contemplative. Then Alana spoke. “Please don't leave. I'm trying, I really am. It's just...hard for me to accept. I do love you, and I trust you. I don't believe you're crazy.” 

Will looked Alana in the eye. “Do you trust my judgment?” He looked away again. “I shouldn't ask that, I shouldn't make you answer that. I'm sorry. Just...please, Alana...even if you don't believe me yet, help me. I can't do this on my own. I've tried.” 

Alana embraced him, laying her head on his chest and listening to the beat of his heart. “Okay,” she murmured. “Okay.” Never in her life had she felt so uncertain: she felt like a rag doll being pulled in different directions. She closed her eyes and focused on what she knew – that Will would not hurt her, that he loved her and she loved him. Everything else could wait. 

Will felt nauseous and tired that afternoon, so Alana settled him on the sofa with a pillow and blanket. He was asleep within minutes. She flipped through the news networks and watched the coverage of his hearing. The cameras in the courtroom had recorded his testimony, and legal pundits discussed and analyzed his body language. Nearly everyone seemed to think the judge was a fool and that Will was using his expertise to manipulate him, but Alana, an experienced psychiatrist with years of work with trauma victims, saw genuine emotions when Will testified. She still didn't know what to think – on the one hand, Will's claim that Hannibal had framed him for five brutal murders seemed so bizarre, so paranoid, that it couldn't possibly be true. But she also knew, from her own testing and work with him, that Will was sane. If that was so, why did he keep holding on to this delusion? Was it just because the truth was too horrible for him to contemplate, or was there something else? 

She pulled out his journal again and read more, looking for answers. 

_Dear Alana, Chilton wants to give me electroconvulsive therapy. He thinks it will help me remember the murders he believes I committed. There are two problems with this: firstly, I have not committed any murders to remember (I know you don't believe me, but I am innocent, I can assure you), and, secondly, if the therapy was used – what would it do to someone like me? would it scramble me more? – it might bring up memories that could vindicate me, things that I lost when I was ill. That would not make Chilton happy. The third problem to add to my list is that no one believes me, so those memories would be pointless anyway. I'd just be accused of lying. I foresee that Chilton will be trapped in this vicious circle and eventually electroshock me into drooling oblivion. I can't decide if this is a good or bad thing._

_I feel helpless and I want your guidance, but I also don't want to involve you, because Chilton has threatened to ban your visits and I can't have that happen. You are the only good thing here, and if you're gone, I don't think I'll have anything else to live for._

_Dear Alana, Dr. Lecter came today. I don't want to talk about him. I really don't. I'm scared to talk about him with you...scared of what he might do to you if he knows that you know what I know. I have to protect you from him. He can't do to you what he did to Abigail. He told me once that we were her fathers now – but what kind of father slits his daughter's throat? She must have cried and begged for her life, begged for him to stop, and he did it anyway, just like Hobbs did. At the end, she couldn't escape him. And neither can I._

Alana read that entry several times, trying to make sense of it. Will knew something, and he believed telling Alana would put her in danger. There was more to the story between him, Hannibal, and Abigail – but would she be able to get it out of him, when he was clearly so fearful for her life if he told her? 

She flipped through the journal, finding an entry toward the end where his handwriting was shaky, so shaky she could barely read what he'd written. _Alana – I need to ground myself. I'm scared. The thought of being here for the rest of my life is making me desperate. There's nothing in this cell I can hurt myself with, except hanging myself with my sheet. I'm not sure if I can do it quickly enough yet. I don't want to be caught and then put on suicide watch. Chilton will have me stripped naked and thrown into a cell with padded walls and then I'll really be a crazy person. The screamer won't stop. His screams haunt my dreams. I want him to die. Please, God, if you are merciful, give him a heart attack so he can die._

Alana looked at Will, sleeping on her couch, his dogs curled peacefully and calmly on the floor around him. Durkheim wrote of fatalistic suicide, the kind of suicide often committed by prisoners because their environment was so oppressive, so hopeless, that they could see no way out but death. Will had begun to think this way – he'd begun to see death as freedom from misery, something that would bring peace and silence to the chaos of his life. _He can't go back there,_ Alana thought. _He'll be dead within a month._

How far would she be willing to go to prevent it? She had done, once, what she thought was beneficial for him – she'd tried to have Will apprehended so that he could be treated, and while he'd gotten the treatment he needed, it had ultimately landed him in the hell of Baltimore State Hospital, a hell he had barely survived. Whatever had happened, this man, Will Graham, believed he was not a murderer, and the thought had come to torture him over time instead of providing strength and solace.

_Would I give everything up for him rather than see him back there? Would I give up my career, my home, my life to protect him? Would I go on the run with him? Would I put a bullet in his brain when the police came for him rather than see him in that cell again, or on Death Row?_ Jack had sworn there would be justice, even though Will had solved cases for him, had saved lives for him, had driven himself to the brink of insanity for him. But what justice was this? There would be no rehabilitation for Will at Baltimore State Hospital, or at any state institution. His life would ebb away, destroyed piece by piece by bad med regiments and abuse and loneliness and despair. He would never be free. Chilton, damn him, was right – she _was_ laboring under a delusion, a delusion that she knew what was right and what was wrong, that the lines of moral demarcation were clear. 

_What do I believe?_ she asked herself. She'd have to figure it out, and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, feisty!Will. It's nice to see you again. :)
> 
> Thank you to all the wonderful people who have left kudos and especially reviews -- it's been a pleasure chatting with you all.


	7. Chapter Seven

By the next morning, the crowd at the end of Alana's property had swelled again, with an increased number of protesters spurned on by the news shows and blogs. They were yelling and chanting. Alana didn't feel safe, in spite of the squad car sitting in front of her house. The dogs were restless – she hadn't let them out to run in the yard as she normally did, fearing someone would confront her out there. She hated feeling like a prisoner in her own home, and feeling like Will had traded one prison for another. He still didn't have clothes. 

They were eating breakfast at her kitchen counter when Alana decided to broach the subject. “I'm wondering if we should go away for a while, maybe stay in a hotel until these people lose interest.” 

Will shrugged. “They'll go away if I go away.”

“I told you, you're not leaving.” 

“Put me in a hospital. They can detox me there, take care of me.” 

“I don't want you in a hospital. You've spent enough time in hospitals.” 

“I don't want to _be_ in a hospital, Alana, but I don't have a choice here. You have to be back in work on Monday. We're lucky a rock or a bullet hasn't sailed through a window yet. You remember the scene at the Hobbs's house when Abigail returned.” 

Alana couldn't fault his logic. Part of her should have expected this, but part of her was disturbed by the lack of human decency. Will hadn't been convicted of any crime – according to the law, he was still innocent. But he had already been judged guilty by nearly everyone, including Jack Crawford himself. 

There was a knock at the door. She wondered when Will would stop going pale every time someone knocked – probably a very long time from now. Alana rose and walked to the front door, a few of the dogs following her. “Who is it?” she said loudly.

“Hey, Alana, it's Beverly Katz. Can I come in?”

Alana glanced outside and saw only Beverly's coupe in her driveway – no FBI cars, no Jack. She opened the door.

Beverly stood on her doorstep, shopping bags in tow. “Hi,” she said, and her voice was friendly. “I looked up your address in the employee information files. I hope you don't mind. I saw the news, figured you guys might need some stuff. It's a zoo out there.”

“No, it's okay. Let me help you get this stuff in.” Alana collected a few of the bags – Will met them halfway, and all three of them carried the bags into the kitchen. 

“It's just basics,” Beverly said as they unpacked the bags, “but I figured it would hold you two over for a few days.”

“Thanks, Beverly,” Will said. He was still looking at her cautiously, careful not to make eye contact.

“I'm sorry I missed your hearing,” Beverly said to Will. “I wanted to come, but Jack had me on an assignment – on purpose, I think.” 

“It's okay,” Will replied. There was an awkward silence between the three of them – Alana sensed that Beverly's visit, as thoughtful as it had been, had upset Will. It had brought up a lot of old feelings that made him uncomfortable. Alana took over. “Thank you so much,” she said to Beverly. 

Beverly smiled, tightly. It didn't reach her eyes. “It's no problem. Will, I wish I could have brought you some of your things, but a lot of it's still in evidence and it won't be cleared to go back out since the investigation's still open.”

Will just nodded. The talk about his personal items still being “evidence” was upsetting him further. Alana had to save the situation, quickly. “Will, now that Beverly's with me, I'm going to let the dogs out. Can you put this stuff away for me?”

He nodded, again, still silent. 

Alana and Beverly took a quick circle around her yard before letting the dogs out, looking for anyone who might be hiding in the trees. Beverly was carrying her badge and gun and maneuvered her jacket to let them show. “How is he?” she asked. 

“He's holding on,” Alana said. “He's fragile, though. I'm pretty sure he's suffering from post-traumatic stress. He hasn't really begun to process that he's out yet – he keeps thinking someone's coming to arrest him and take him back there.” 

“I know. And to think all this time, he might have been innocent.”

“Do you believe he's innocent?” Alana asked, careful to keep her voice even.

“I'm not sure what to think any more. He's right about the evidence, though – there's holes, things that don't make sense. This isn't the first quiet conversation I've had about it; Price has got his suspicions, too. But Jack investigated Dr. Lecter and he's spotless – almost too spotless. He's absolutely meticulous in everything he does.” 

Alana nodded. “He always has been.” She whistled to one of the dogs. “Duke, baby, not so far.” 

Beverly went on. “Bella's in bad shape and Dr. Lecter's been helping Jack through it. They've become really close. He consults on cases regularly now. Jack spends a few evenings a week with him.” 

“Is it true that Jack has been asking Will for help, too?”

“Yeah, he was sending me out to see Will about once a month for a while. Will's still the best profiler there is, and maybe ever will be.”

“What was Jack promising to give him in return? Anything?” 

“Not much. Will wanted his file – the copycat's file – but that was out of the question. Mostly Jack promised to investigate Lecter, but that went nowhere. In February, Will asked me to stop coming and to tell Jack he didn't want to help anymore. He was really out of it, really down.” 

“Yeah, that was about when he decided to plead. Plus, Dr. Chilton was drugging him. Antipsychotics, sedatives, mood stabilizers. I'm going to have to detox him and then stabilize him with a new med regiment.” 

“You sure you want him to stay with you, Alana?”

“I can handle him – he's not psychotic, not violent. He's a trauma survivor. He needs to feel safe and secure right now. I don't think an inpatient facility is going to do that for him – too many bad associations.” 

“Would he feel safe here? No offense, but there's a lot of angry people outside your door.” 

“We were discussing it when you came. We might have to consider a move to a hotel, but Will's not going to want to leave his dogs, not unless he has to.”

They were both silent, contemplative. Finally, Alana spoke again. “Beverly, I hate to ask you for another favor since you've already been so generous, but Will has no clothing besides underwear and what he wore to court. I went to his place before it was repossessed and took what I could to a storage unit. It's not far from here. Could you pick up a few of his things? He needs warm clothes, pajamas, anything that might make him more comfortable here. I still don't want to leave him alone yet.” 

Beverly nodded. “Yeah, of course. And I'll see what I can pull with the local PD to get those people out of here.”

Alana whistled and the dogs came running, obedient as usual. She counted to make sure none had disappeared, and then she and Beverly followed them back inside. Will was still in the kitchen, struggling to find the right places for a few items. “Leave those, I'll show you where they go in a few minutes,” Alana said. “Beverly's going to go pick up some of your things from storage.”

Beverly smiled at him. “And I'm going to try to get the cops to get those people out of here.” 

Will just looked at her. Alana's first impression was that Will was being rude to Beverly, but as she studied him, she realized that he wasn't sure if he could trust Beverly and so he was very uncomfortable, even hesitant to interact with her. _Of course,_ she thought. “Beverly, let me walk you out and give you the directions,” Alana said, rubbing Will's arm to reassure him. 

Alana and Beverly walked into the foyer, and Alana gave her the address and number of the small storage unit where she was keeping Will's things and the key. “Thank you so much, again,” Alana said. “All he needs is enough for a few days. We can go back later in the week, when he's feeling stronger.” 

Beverly nodded. “I'll be back in a few hours,” she said, and went back outside. 

Alana walked back into the kitchen, where Will was still standing awkwardly. “You okay?” she asked. “You were quiet.” 

His eyes were focused somewhere on the counter. “I didn't expect to feel so uncomfortable when I saw her.”

“I'm not going to scold you, you're not a child. But you'll be interested to know that she and Price have doubts about your guilt, too.”

He raised his eyes to her face. “Really?”

“Really.” She took the last of the items Beverly had brought – tea, toilet paper, paper towels, and bread – and began putting them into their designated places in her kitchen and pantry. She took the rest of the oatmeal from Will's breakfast and heated it back up, then poured him a fresh glass of orange juice. All the while, Will watched her silently. “Finish this,” she told him, taking the warm oatmeal out of the microwave and setting it back on the counter, along with the orange juice. “You're the only person I've ever seen that ended up skinnier while taking antipsychotics.” 

“I wasn't eating much,” he muttered.

“I can imagine.” She smiled. “Beverly brought us fresh eggs. You want an omelet tonight?”

He nodded. “That sounds good.” He was mostly playing with his oatmeal, but he was taking a few bites. “Can I ask you something?” he finally said. 

Alana nodded. “Yeah.” 

“I'm glad you did it, but...why did you save my stuff? I was facing the rest of my life in prison. It wouldn't have mattered.” 

While Will was at Baltimore State Hospital, she'd stopped by his house once a week to check his mail. A few months after his arrest, the collections notices from the bank had started to arrive – Will was behind on his mortgage payments, since the money he'd had in savings was being used for his legal fees. She'd told Will during one of her visits, and he'd had no choice but to let his beloved farmhouse in Wolf Trap go, since he couldn't afford both his home and his attorney. Alana kept track of the mail, waiting for the eviction notice. 

When it came, she went to his house, unlocked the door with her spare key, and looked around in the silence. The power and water had long since been disconnected. She had originally come to find any keepsakes that might have had meaning to Will – family photos, mementos, jewelry. She didn't find much. She took his diplomas and awards, a few pictures, and anything that looked like it might be important to Will. It all fit in one box, which she then took out of the house and slid into her trunk. 

The lone box in her car had looked pathetic and sad. _One man's entire life condensed into a single box,_ she'd thought. And then, she'd gone back inside and started packing clothes and personal items into suitcases and garbage bags. She didn't know why she'd done it, only that that lone box in the back of her car upset her when she thought of it. Besides his clothes, she packed some of his books and his records and record player – she'd smiled at a lot of the titles because she and Will liked a lot of the same music. After some deliberation, she decided to leave the fishing reels. She'd felt better seeing her car a little more full. 

“Honestly?” she responded. “I wasn't sure, but it just felt right. I might have had hope, I don't know. But I couldn't stand the thought of leaving you with nothing.” 

He smiled a little. “It turned out to be a good decision, in the end.”

She nodded and grabbed his hand. “It did. I'm glad it did.” 

Beverly returned a few hours later with a suitcase of Will's clothing – pajamas, jeans, slacks and shirts, sweaters, shoes, clean underwear, his jackets. “The PD's agreed to chase out the protesters,” she said. “I told them you were worried about property damage, invoked the threat of paperwork. They've agreed to keep a cruiser stationed here for a few days and then keep regular patrols for a while. They're not happy with the attention, either.” 

“Thank you, Beverly,” Will said, quietly, still not looking her in the eye. 

Beverly smiled at him. “You're welcome.” 

“Go upstairs and get dressed,” Alana told Will. “Take off that t-shirt and throw it in the trash. I don't want anything from Baltimore State Hospital in my house.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He bent over the suitcase, pulling out what he wanted to wear, and then went upstairs. 

Alana turned to Beverly. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Do you want some lunch?” 

Alana and Beverly were sitting at the dining room table, catching up about the goings-on at Quantico, when Will came downstairs, showered again and wearing his own clothes – jeans and a long-sleeve henley t-shirt. It was even more apparent now that he was wearing his old clothes just how thin he was and how much the last year had aged him. “Will, come and sit with us,” Alana said. “You've got a sandwich here too.” 

“I'm all right,” he muttered. “I'm not hungry.”

Not wanting to embarrass him in front of Beverly, but also not willing to excuse him from food and an opportunity to be sociable, Alana rose from the table and gently guided him over. “Come sit, okay?” she whispered to him. He said nothing, but did sit at the table with them.

Beverly smiled at him. “You look better. More like...you.” 

Will was silent for a moment, then spoke quietly. “I'm sorry...I'm still getting used to things out here.”

“It's all right,” Beverly said.

“How are things with Saul?” Will asked her.

“Who's Saul?” Alana asked, confused.

“Saul's her boyfriend,” Will said, matter-of-factly.

“You've got a boyfriend?”

Beverly smiled. “Almost two years now.” 

“You've never mentioned this! Who is he? What does he do?” 

“Well, he's not FBI. He's a chef, actually. I met him at a cooking class.” 

Alana turned to Will. “Wait, wait...how did _you_ know Beverly has a boyfriend?”

“She wore an emerald ring once when she came to see me. I saw it when she put a file in the sally port.”

“And of course he noticed it and asked me about it,” Beverly said, “since he notices everything.” 

Will shrugged. “I didn't have much else to do, you know.”

Beverly grinned. “Things are good. He's made me a better cook, at least. I burned water before I met him. That's why my mom told me to take the cooking class.” 

Alana, Beverly, and Will spent another hour catching up. Will was still quiet, but was at least able to look at Beverly in the eye after a while. She gave him a warm hug on her way out. “It's good to see you out,” she said to him. “I mean it.” She looked significantly at both of them. “Listen, if there's anything I can do to help, just call me. I'll get you what you need.”

Will shook his head. “That's risky, Beverly.” 

“I'm not the only one at the BAU questioning this. Jack's already faced an inquiry and the press from the hearing's not going to make things any easier for him. They're going to investigate, Will. But you need to do your own work, too; no one can figure this mess out better than you, because no one's got as much at stake as you.” 

Will nodded. “I know.”

“I'll see you both later. Call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Will said. She and Alana walked outside – the press and the protesters had been chased off. The road in front of Alana's house was clear, and she breathed a sigh of relief. 

When Alana went back inside, she saw Will's suitcase laying in her foyer. If her primary priority was to make him feel safe and comfortable, it meant not seeing him living out of a suitcase. “Let me help you get these clothes put away,” she said to Will.

“Where are we going to put them?” he asked. 

“I've got room in the guest room.” She paused and smiled. “You could sleep in the guest room if you like,” she said, teasingly. “Would you want to?”

Will shook his head. “No, I'm happy where I am.”

Alana grinned and kissed him. They both took the suitcase upstairs and emptied it, Alana hanging his clothes in the closet and putting his shirts, pajamas, and underclothes away in the drawers. Will's mood had picked up significantly from what it had been in the morning – Alana suspected it was largely because he felt more comfortable wearing his own clothes, using items that were his and weren't going to be taken away or stolen. She was glad she had decided to save some of his things, even if the decision seemed foolish at the time. 

The rest of their day together was quiet. They checked the yard carefully before they let the dogs out, and Alana made the omelets she promised, full of vegetables and cheese. Will ate the most she'd seen him eat yet and they settled in to watch movies that evening. He made it less than an hour before he fell asleep. Sammy, his black and brown sheepdog, had taken the place of honor on his lap tonight; her head was resting peacefully on his knee. Alana watched him sleep for a while, petting Charlie on her lap, before she went back to her office to retrieve Will's journal. 

It was difficult to read. His mental state degraded more and more, partly because of the powerful medication Chilton had given him and partly because of his own despondency. She was also shocked and dismayed by the conditions of the hospital, which seemed more like the worst kind of prison than a place to rehabilitate the mentally ill. Alana was struck again by how narrow of an escape he'd had – if things had gone differently in court, she suspected he'd likely be on suicide watch now instead of sleeping in her living room with a full belly, a dog on his knee. 

After a few hours – Will was sleeping soundly – she was reaching the end of the journal. His handwriting was shaky for the penultimate entry: 

_Dear Alana, I can't eat any more. I've been trying but, between the nausea I've been feeling and my nerves, nothing stays down. The nurse says that if this lasts a few more days, they're going to begin to force-feed me. I think they think I'm on a hunger strike and that the threat will coerce me into eating, but I'm actually not all that frightened by it. The worst they could do is kill me, which doesn't seem like a bad option any more, honestly._

_My hearing is two days away. The only reason why I'm looking forward to it is seeing you._

She flipped to the last entry. Will's handwriting was stronger: 

_Dear Alana,_ it said,

_I'll be seeing you in a few hours and giving you this journal. I had planned on making my final entry a goodbye letter to you, but in essence, this entire journal has been a goodbye letter, in its way. I'm sure you've called Chilton by now and I'm currently in the padded cell on suicide watch. I don't blame you – you have ethics, and you'll want to preserve my life even if I don't want it preserved._

_I haven't slept much in the past few days, just in short bursts here and there, but I keep having the same dream. I'm a child again in Biloxi, in the boatyard where my father worked. It's the height of summer, and I'm staring out at the blue Gulf, a breeze blowing towards me. I can feel it on my skin. My father is talking to me, and he's just the way I remember him, skinny and tanned and wind-beaten, with tough hands and a Southern drawl. He's telling me to be careful, to mind the wind, and I don't understand what he means. Then, I become conscious that I'm not a child, that I'm an adult and my father has been dead for ten years, and I tell him how sorry I am for wasting my life and that I will see him soon. But he won't listen to me. He keeps telling me to be careful, to mind the wind, to let the current take me where it will, as if I was stuck in a rip tide. Our failure to communicate is wearing on me. There was so much left unsaid between us, and I want to say it so that I can find peace and die without regret._

_I don't want that same regret between us, Alana. I know that, after today, I will probably never see you again. I can never hope to repay you for all the kindness you've shown me in the past year, all the time that you spent thinking about me and (I'm sure) worrying about me. I hate that you've had to worry. I wish things could have been different between us. I think often of how things could have been different – paths we could have walked together, you and I, if this hadn't happened to me. Maybe I could have sweet-talked you into a date or two, despite your misgivings about me. Maybe we could have cuddled together in front of a space heater with my dogs. Maybe I could have kissed you one more time, many more times. So many “maybes” and so little actually done._

_I wish I could have been stronger for you. I wish I could have the hope you so desperately want me to have. But I don't. I can't escape and there is no miracle coming for me, only the rest of my life in a cage, being peered at like a strange, exotic animal too dangerous to be released into the wild. Maybe, if I held on, I'd get a few short years on the outside, in a world that I no longer recognize and that has no place for me. But that's nothing I want. All I want is those “maybes” with you that are no longer possible._

_I love you so much. I'm sorry. Please forgive me._

She looked up at him, watched him breathe. _You're forgiven, my love,_ she thought. 

On Sunday, Will was very tired and spent most of the day curled up on the sofa, sleeping on and off. Alana took the opportunity to go into her office to get some work done that she had been putting off due to Will's hearing and the chaos of his homecoming. It was mid-afternoon when she heard a noise and then hard, harsh coughing. “Will?” she called, walking out of the office and towards the sofa where he had been sleeping. He was sitting up and coughing so hard that it seemed he couldn't breathe. She ran to him and pulled him up straighter, pounding his back with the heel of her hand for a few terrifying seconds before he took a deep breath. 

There was no food or drink near him, nothing for him to be choking on. She let him breathe deeply for a minute or so before asking him what happened. 

“Bad dream,” he said quietly, still out of breath. “I couldn't breathe for a second.” 

“Let me get you some water.” She filled a glass with water in the kitchen and returned to the living room; Will was still coughing. She sat down next to him and rubbed his back: his t-shirt was soaked with sweat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He shook his head. “I don't remember the dream,” he said. 

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” He drank the water in small sips. Alana sat with him until his breathing was clear. She didn't know what to make of this dream, but it had scared her, and she hoped he wouldn't have it again.


	8. Chapter Eight

On Monday morning, Alana got ready for work as she normally did. Will woke with her to take his meds and to see her off. 

“You sure you'll be okay on your own?” she asked, pouring coffee into her travel mug. 

“I'm not alone,” he said. “The dogs are here.” 

“Be careful when you let them out in the yard.”

He nodded. “I will.” 

“You know I'm going to be calling you every spare chance I get. I want you to pick up the phone, even if you're sleeping. If you miss a call, call me right back. Don't make me drive all the way back over here to check on you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, nodding again. 

“Your evening meds are on the counter. Take them right at seven.”

“Okay.” 

“And if _anything_ happens, call me right away.”

He smiled. “All right, Alana.” 

Normally, five days at home would have made her stir-crazy, but she found that she was very hesitant to leave. She looked at Will's rumpled hair and wanted nothing more in the world to crawl back into bed with him. 

He walked her out to her car and they embraced, hugging each other and kissing repeatedly. “Go back inside, it's cold,” she said, finally, breaking contact and unlocking her car. He backed away as she climbed in, buckled her seatbelt, and started the engine. “Go!” she said, laughing at him. He walked back to the porch and opened the door. Alana circled out of the driveway but wouldn't leave until she saw him go back inside, the door closing securely behind him. 

She called him after she'd been on the road for fifteen minutes. He picked up. “I'm fine,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Just checking. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She grinned. It felt so damn good to say it. 

She made good on her promises to call him. He always answered, even when she could hear sleepiness in his voice. 

She came home that evening to find Will in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and cooking chicken breasts in a saucepan. She could smell potatoes roasting in the oven. “Mmmm, I could get used to this,” she murmured, setting her head on Will's shoulder and caressing his arm. 

“It's nothing, really. I don't know how good it'll be. I haven't cooked in a while.”

“I'm sure it will be fine. It smells good. You feeling better?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Clearer.” 

“That's good. I'm going to go change.” She kissed him on his shoulder. 

Upstairs, she undressed and showered, but instead of putting on her pajamas as she normally did, she towel-dried her hair and put on a loose cotton dress and an open cardigan. She came downstairs barefoot. 

Will looked up from the stove and smiled at her a little wistfully. “You look pretty,” he said. 

Alana sighed dramatically. “You cook for me, tell me I'm pretty...you can stay forever now. I've decided.” 

He smiled. “You've never had a boyfriend cook for you?”

_Boyfriend._ Now there was a strange word. “No, never. Haven't had many boyfriends, and none of them were decent cooks.” 

Will made a face, raising his eyebrows and gritting his teeth. “You'd better keep the phone close, because I'm not sure how well this is going to come out. You might have to order pizza.” 

“We won't have to order pizza.” She put on some music, set the table for two, pulled a beer out for herself from the fridge, then sat and watched Will finish dinner while she petted and greeted any dog that walked by. It was all so _domestic,_ and Alana felt the warm pleasure of it. 

Within twenty minutes, Alana and Will were sitting down to a simple but solid dinner of chicken and roasted red potatoes with rosemary, garlic, and olive oil. “The food's okay?” Will asked.

“It's good. Thank you.” 

“You're smiling a lot.”

“This feels good.” _You feel good._ “I'm glad you're here. I want you to feel comfortable. I know you miss home but I want you to feel like this could be your home, too.” 

“I appreciate what you've done for me.”

She gestured to the table with her fork. “Is this what this is all about?” 

“Sort of, I guess. And cooking is a relaxing activity. Stabilizing.”

She chuckled. “You're beginning to sound like me.” 

Alana agreed to do the washing up while Will fed and let out the dogs. She made cups of tea for both herself and Will and walked over to the sofa, where Will was watching TV absently. He accepted the cup of tea, and Alana sat beside him and turned off the TV. “One of the conditions of your release is that you undergo psychiatric care with me,” she said. “I have no intention to lie to the court, so we will be having regular sessions.” 

“Are we having one now?”

“Seems a good a time as any.” She mimed checking her watch. “We have fifty minutes. Let's talk.” 

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“Well, in early sessions, I generally direct the patient. You can take more control when you feel comfortable doing so.” 

“What if I never feel that way?” 

“We'll make do.” She took a sip of her tea before beginning. “I want to talk about your journal.” 

“How much have you read?”

“All of it.”

He lost eye contact with her, looked down in his lap. _Shame,_ she thought. “I'm not suicidal anymore.” 

“I know, but that doesn't mean I don't care about why you were suicidal in the first place, or about why you wrote me, as you put it, a very long suicide note to begin with.” 

Will nodded, but he was silent.

“I know that you're ashamed, that you feel that you were weak, but you _weren't._ Will, you were in solitary confinement for a year. You were restrained, you were chained up, you were drugged, and you were basically treated like an animal. On top of that, you've lost nearly everything, every touchstone you had before you were imprisoned. You are _traumatized_ – and that's okay. It doesn't make you weak.”

Will still said nothing. 

Alana continued. “Humans are, by nature, social creatures – even people like you, who value and need solitude, also need human interaction. It's understood by those of us who work with prisoners that solitary confinement, particularly for long periods, can exacerbate mental problems or even cause them in previously healthy people. There are very few people with the fortitude to endure what you've endured without suffering after-effects. I think you're actually doing remarkably well, considering what you've been through. That says a lot about you.” 

Will was still silent. She knew there were deep emotions under his facade, that he was hiding them because he was embarrassed and fearful and ashamed. _Still waters run deep,_ she thought. The key was getting him to release those emotions – at least, some of them. 

She said, “Just the other day you argued, quite forcefully, that you weren't unstable. Do you still agree with that?”

“Yes.” 

“I made a mistake, Will. I made an assumption about you based on incomplete evidence, on rumor and hearsay. You're right – people do make assumptions about you, because they don't understand you. But you understand yourself, and that's what's most important.”

He looked back up at her, curiously. “What mistake did you make?” 

“I assumed you were unstable because you were mentally ill, but now I know it's because you were suffering from a very serious physical illness. I can't imagine what you must have gone through, what you must have felt – you were going insane and you didn't know why, and there was no answer for you. Jack was pushing you. You were pushing yourself. I should have stepped in earlier, but I trusted Hannibal to take care of you. I trusted his judgement more than I trusted my own.” 

“Do you think that was a mistake?”

“Now, I think it was.” 

“You feel guilty, too,” he said. 

“I do.” 

“You shouldn't. It was my fault. I didn't tell you how bad I was – only Dr. Lecter knew.” 

“I _guessed._ I knew you were having hallucinations, at least. I never even thought it could have been due to a physical illness. I assumed it was a mental disorder.” 

“Everyone did.”

“And everyone was _wrong._ ” She paused. “We all missed it and you're paying the price, in every way possible. This is not your fault, Will, it's _ours._ You put your trust in us, in Hannibal especially, and we let you down.”

“I pushed myself.” 

“And Jack should have stopped you. He should have pulled you out of the field. I told him not to put you in to begin with.” 

“Because you thought I was unstable? I could have handled it, Alana, if I wasn't sick. It was the encephalitis that made me unstable, not the field.”

She nodded. “You're right. I tested you myself and I found no signs of a serious mental illness. What I suspect you do have – clinical depression and post-traumatic stress – is very treatable. Once you're off the medications from Chilton, I'm going to work with you on a new med regiment. You'll feel much better.” 

He looked away from her again. “I don't know if I want any more meds.” 

“You might need them. The medication you're on now is dulling your emotions. When those medicines are gone, those emotions are going to come back out. They'll likely be difficult to control.”

“So I'll be unstable again?”

“Some emotional instability is a natural and normal part of recovery from trauma. I just want you to feel like you're in control, as much as possible. You might feel emotions at times that seem irrational – surges of anger, even rage, or depression. You might have physical symptoms, like body aches or stomach problems or sleep issues. Psychotropic medication will help.”

He leaned forward and put his head into his hands. “I don't want to be crazy.”

“I told you, you're _not_ crazy. What you're suffering from is manageable and treatable. In time, you'll be all right. You'll live a normal life.” 

He chucked ironically. “I've never lived a normal life.” 

“There's no reason why you _can't,_ Will. You can have whatever you want. That's what I want to help you realize.” She broke with her professional boundary and grabbed his hand and squeezed it, because it was _Will_ she was talking to, Will that she loved. She wanted that normal life to include her, and she knew that Will wanted it, too. 

They were both silent for a few minutes. Alana knew she had to take control of the session again, redirect him, but she also wanted what she had said to sink in, for him to reflect on it. Finally, she spoke again. “You wrote in your journal that there was a lot you were keeping from me, a lot you weren't telling me.” 

“Yes, there is.” 

“Do you want to start with your encephalitis? Tell me what you felt, what you experienced, in detail.” 

And so he did. He was hesitant at first, but with gentle prodding from Alana, he gradually opened up. He described the incidents of sleepwalking, the loss of time, the hallucinations, the terrible headaches, the nightmares, the loss of a grip on reality. Alana let him speak, occasionally asking for more detail, trying to push past his boundaries of shame and fear to get at the heart of his experience. As he spoke, he seemed to become less fearful, more trusting, and she even detected hints of anger and frustration in his voice. 

They spoke for more than half an hour. When Will was done, she asked, “You told Hannibal about this?”

“Not all of it, and not as much in detail, but yes. He knew what was going on.” 

“What was his reaction?”

“He thought it was mental illness. I was the one who asked to see a neurologist. When the first scan came up clear he was willing to accept it. I was the one who pushed for more tests. He was hinting that I was in denial.” 

“Did he offer any medication to help you with your symptoms? He could have prescribed you something.”

“No. The only thing I took was aspirin for the headaches.” 

Alana thought that was very odd, and troubling – if she'd had a patient with Will's symptoms, she would have prescribed him something. An antipsychotic would have been the first line of defense. It just wasn't safe to have a patient experiencing what Will had experienced walking around without treatment. The patient could be injured or injure someone else. _Just what Will had done,_ she thought. “When did you start experiencing these symptoms?” she asked. 

“I had the headaches and hallucinations for a while – since late October, early November at least.”

“But Hannibal didn't send you in for neurological testing until February?” 

“I don't think he would have sent me at all if I hadn't insisted on it.” 

Alana knew Hannibal had handled Will's treatment badly – he'd even admitted as much in court – but she hadn't been aware of how badly it was handled. She thought back to what the neurologists at the hospital in Minnesota where Will had been treated told her: that his encephalitis was advanced, and that it was remarkable that he hadn't had any permanent brain damage. His recovery had been very successful, owing to his good health and relative youth, but he was lucky. It could have been much worse. 

How could Hannibal have missed the fact that Will was so sick? How could he have not noticed symptoms for nearly four months? It didn't make any sense. Hannibal was an ER doctor – he was used to having to make fast decisions, to taking risks with treatment on incomplete evidence. He should have had Will in a neurologist's office the moment he reported he was sleepwalking; it was dangerous to knowingly let a patient sleepwalk, especially in cold Virginia winters. Will had walked out on the highway in his underwear and bare feet; he had ended up on his roof. He could have been seriously injured or killed. 

“Alana?” Will asked, finally. 

She blinked back into focus. “I'm sorry, Will.” 

“Is everything all right?”

She looked down at her hands for a moment, trying to control her own emotions, and then looked back at him again. “I'm shocked at what you've told me, actually.” 

“You would have done differently?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled humorlessly. “You've had two psychiatrists now who've botched your treatment. No wonder you're hesitant to talk to me.”

“I trust you,” he said quietly. “I wish you had been my doctor all along. None of this would ever have happened.” 

She wasn't sure what he meant – did he mean the murders, or his belief that he was framed for them? Or both, perhaps? That was something else she'd have to ferret out of him over the next few weeks, if and when he was ready to tell her.


	9. Chapter Nine

Alana and Will lay together in their underwear in bed, talking while they explored each other's bodies. Alana had discovered a scar on Will's shoulder from a stab wound received during a botched arrest when he was a homicide detective. He had admitted, very quietly, that his shoulder was aching from so many days in restraints and handcuffs. “They weren't gentle over there,” he said.

“Not surprising,” Alana said, rubbing the scar. “You should have told me earlier. We can pick up whatever you need from the pharmacy.” 

He was rubbing her lower back when he peeked cheekily inside her panties. Alana giggled, but he sat up straighter. “You have a tattoo,” he said. 

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

He squinted. “What is it?”

She slapped him playfully. “It's not that bad...okay, maybe it is.” 

“It's a butterfly. When did you get it? I bet you were younger than 21.” 

“Right in one. I got it spring break junior year. Daytona Beach.” 

“How drunk were you?”

She giggled. “I-have-a-fake-ID-and-I'm-getting-away-with-it drunk.” 

Will nodded and raised his eyebrows. “It's not so bad, really.” 

“Not so bad?”

“Okay. It's the most gorgeous tattoo I've ever seen. The only reason why it's not hanging in an art gallery is because just above your ass is a much more beautiful place.” 

“Mmm, that's better.” She kissed him, savoring his warm mouth. She rolled over and let him fondle and kiss her breasts under her tank top. His hands were gentle. Eventually, she pulled his head away from her breasts and began kissing him again, deeply. 

They kept themselves occupied kissing for a while, until Alana broke off the kissing and stroked his face. He smiled at her in that sweet, wonderful way she loved, the way he smiled only at her. She felt so _happy._

Will looked down to where her gold starfish hung around her neck. “I've never asked you about your necklace,” he said. He was playing with her long hair and it was bliss. 

“It was my grandmother's, the original Alana Bloom. I was named after her. She was a good Irish Catholic.”

Will nodded. “Stella Maris. A good choice for someone who helps troubled people.” 

Alana smiled. Will was so strange like that – he had such a vast pool of knowledge, which he'd draw from randomly. “What's so funny?” he asked

“You're so brilliant and you ended up a police officer. I can't even imagine you trying to arrest anyone.”

“Maybe that's why I was so bad at it.” 

“What made you join up?”

“What made _you_ join up, Dr. Forensic Psychiatry? You're the most beautiful forensic psychiatrist I've ever seen.”

“That's not saying much.” 

“No, it's not. I haven't met many forensic psychiatrists.”

She slapped him playfully, again. “Answer my question, smart ass.” 

He was trying to intertwine one of his feet with hers. “I wanted to be a detective. And I was – until I realized that I hated it. It wasn't because I didn't have the stomach for the work itself, just the people I worked with. I hated how so many of the cops were violent towards women, how they lied on reports, how they intimidated people. And then I was hurt and I had to go through rehab and when I was done with all that, I didn't want to go back.”

“So you went to graduate school instead.” 

“Yeah, for forensic science and forensic psychology. I was hired in the lab over at BAU – I was never supposed to go out in the field. Too unstable.” He said the last statement with a note of irony in his voice. 

“But you were so good they couldn't keep you in the lab. It takes a lot to stand out at the BAU.” 

He lowered his eyes and shrugged. “Yeah, well, look where it got me. Your turn.” 

“I was supposed to be the lawyer in the family. I started out studying English because my dad told me it was a good prep for law school and I loved to read anyway. Junior year, I read this book by Foucault – _Discipline and Punish.”_

“Of course.”

“And I got totally obsessed with the prison system. Then I made the mistake of reading another one of his books, _Madness and Civilization_ , and I was done. I wanted to be both a lawyer and a psychiatrist and one of the few ways you can do that is through forensic psychiatry.” 

“I thought that book was about how psychiatry is bad.”

“Not all of it. I wanted to be a good psychiatrist. I wanted to help people. I still do.”

Will smiled at her. “You _are_ a good psychiatrist. You're the best. Trust me, I'm getting good at judging.”

“I've made mistakes,” she said quietly. “With Gideon, with you.” 

“We've all made mistakes,” Will said. 

“I don't want to make any more with you,” Alana said. “I want to get you right.”

“That might be difficult,” he countered.

“I like a challenge,” she said. She felt his hands on her hips – the wonderful hands she loved – and they were moving lower, slowly. He was looking in her eyes, asking her silently for permission. _I want it,_ she thought. _Oh, I want it._

_Then let him have it,_ something deep inside her said. _It doesn't matter. You crossed that line with him a long time ago. You crossed it the day you brought him home with you instead of sending him to a hospital, like a good doctor would have done._

He was kissing her stomach, and the fire for him raged in her belly. She had to stop him...eventually. But she decided to let herself enjoy what he was doing, for now. 

 

She was startled out of a deep sleep by Will coughing, hard and harshly. He was sitting up on his side of the bed. 

“Will? You okay?” She received nothing but coughs in reply. She sat up and crawled over to him, calling his name. “Will? Will! Answer me!” She reached over to start pounding on his shoulders again to try to clear his airway, but he took a deep breath before she could start.

Alana sat next to him, watching him breathe and rubbing his back. “I'm okay,” he panted, once he'd caught his breath. “I couldn't breathe again.” 

“This is the second time you've had this happen. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

He shook his head. “No...it's gone away from me.” 

“Do you want some water?”

He rubbed her knee. “I can get it. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you.” He rose from the bed, climbed around the sleeping dogs, and then, after he turned on the hallway light, Alana heard his footsteps going downstairs. She heard him continuing to cough down in the kitchen. 

He came back up to the bedroom a few minutes later and climbed back into bed. Alana spooned her body with his and rubbed his back. “You all right?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I'm fine.” 

She was half-asleep when she was vaguely aware of Will getting out of bed again and disappearing downstairs. She fell asleep, expecting him to be back in bed next to her when she woke, but he wasn't there in the morning. 

Over the next few weeks, Will developed bouts of insomnia and slept erratically. He was completely off the antipsychotic medications, but Alana had chosen to keep him on a sedative for anxiety and added the antidepressant she'd asked Chilton for months ago. Aside from his sleep problems, he seemed very stable, much different than the man she'd known for a year and a half. Alana had sessions with him twice a week, and though he'd been slow to open up, their talks seemed to be helping him. She was sticking to subjects he felt comfortable with, for now, until he had been stable for long enough that he could control the emotions brought up by broaching other topics. 

She had begun to settle into a calm, comfortable daily life with him. She found out that he watched _Dateline_ much like a normal person would watch a game show, and that he preferred simple meals. “My dad raised me alone. I grew up on fish frys and hot dogs and tater tots,” he'd told her. In his turn, he laughed at her when she yelled at people on reality shows and told her, once, blushing and turning his head away, that she looked adorable with no makeup on and with her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. They soon discovered each other's annoying personal habits, honed to perfection by too much time spent single and alone: Will left the toilet seat up and forgot to clean up his whiskers when he shaved. In her turn, Alana detested nearly all housework and had a dangerous sweet tooth, which she was used to keeping in line with long hours at the gym in Georgetown. She was also accustomed to spending hours shopping online, especially after she'd had a drink or two, and packages would sometimes arrive at the house with things she'd forgotten she'd ordered. 

They still hadn't had intercourse, although they had gotten very close. Alana struggled with that boundary: she knew it was completely illogical to not want to have sex with Will because sex with him would violate her code of ethics. She knew their entire relationship was unethical. Will, according to the federal court system, was now her _patient._ It wasn't like she was the first psychiatrist to ever fall in love with a patient – some of the best psychiatrists had had ethically questionable relationships with patients – but before she had admitted to herself that she loved Will in that horrible, cold metal room in Baltimore State Hospital, it had all been so _easy._ Now she was head over heels in love with a man who had five counts of murder hanging over his head, a man who could be rearrested for those crimes at any moment. On top of that, he was still healing, both emotionally and physically, from what he'd gone through at Baltimore State Hospital and from his serious illness nearly a year and a half earlier. He'd had a psychotic break and might have – completely unintentionally – killed several innocent people, although the fact of that seemed more and more questionable the more she got to know him. 

But, in spite of her misgivings, Alana was happy – happier than she'd been in a very long time. She looked forward to coming home in the evenings, to see Will curled up with the dogs, dinner started, things fixed and mended and cleaned around her house. She looked forward to sharing a beer with him, to laughing with him, to running her fingers through his hair whenever she got the chance, to feeling him sleeping warm against her, even if his nightmares often woke her. 

She knew there were plenty of rational explanations for what she was feeling – she and Will were in a honeymoon phase when everything would be wonderful and good, and then the fights and disagreements would start and put stress on their relationship – but the depth and passion of emotion Will aroused in her felt strange. She never knew that she could feel so deeply for him, so deeply for anyone.

Now that Will lived with her full-time, Alana realized just how lonely she had been. She thought she'd been happy with her work and her nightly beer in front of the television and the occasional trips to the bar and dinner parties with her friends, but that life felt empty when she peeked at Will's back beneath the sheets, as she watched the sinewy muscles moving up and down with his breath. This strange, awkward, and sincere man with his pack of dogs and his bad clothes had stolen her heart. 

She had long since ceased to imagine the kind of man she might fall in love with, might marry. Love, for her, had been a well long since dry. Her own therapist had often told her she followed her brain too often, not her heart. Every potential romantic partner was weighed on a scale, positive and negative aspects on each side, and if the negatives had any chance of weighing her down, Alana gave up. Following her brain was safe. It meant that she couldn't be hurt. She had told herself that Will was too unstable for her to allow herself to love him, and he _had_ been unstable, because he was sick. Maybe he was still unstable. But that didn't mean that he didn't deserve to be loved and that he couldn't make her happy, in his own way. 

Alana also knew that she had been in love with Will for far longer than she'd realized. She thought back to the time before he'd been arrested, to the day when Jack had told her he wanted to put Will in the field to catch the Minnesota Shrike. The professional part of her knew that Will was gifted and was the one man in the FBI most likely to catch the murderer, but another part of her had been protective of him – needlessly so, as he'd insisted. And then there were the events afterward, when she saw Will becoming more unstable, and she'd resisted the urge to step in, trusting Hannibal and Jack to take care of him. Another mistake. It had hurt her more than just professionally to see Will's downward spiral: it had hurt her heart, her soul. And what would cause that if not genuine affection for the man?

And then there was her decision, after Will was arrested for Abigail's murder, to take care of his dogs. He owned seven – a huge responsibility, but they were his family. Why would she have done that for him, if not out of love? _I loved him even then,_ she thought, _and I talked myself out of loving him._

Alana knew there was no talking herself out of things any more. In spite of herself, she had fallen in love with him, and he with her, and now there was no going back to the way things were between them before. Will had a hell of a fight ahead of him, and Alana was becoming more fully ensconced in his corner, day by day. And she frightened herself when she thought about where that fight would lead them, how it might end, and what she might do to protect him. 

 

She was driving home from Georgetown when she heard her phone ring inside her purse and she reached over to check it. She expected it to be Will, calling to ask what she'd like for dinner, but she was surprised to see Hannibal Lecter's name. She hadn't spoken to Hannibal since Will had been released. 

She let the phone ring. It stopped, and then a few minutes later, she heard the tone for a message. She checked her phone – Hannibal had left a message on her voicemail. “Hello, Alana,” he said in his even, soothing voice. “I hope our good Will is doing well in your care. I would like to hear about his condition and offer my assistance, should you need any.” He paused. “I have missed your company. I hope to see you soon.” The message was normal and inoffensive and even sounded sincere, but it left a chill down her spine for reasons she couldn't explain. 

When she came home, she told Will about the call. “Dr. Lecter doesn't seem like the type to call out of the blue to say hello,” he said. 

“He's usually not,” she replied. “He wanted to know about you, specifically – how you were.” 

“Did you call him back?” 

“I haven't yet. I'm debating whether I should.”

“I know I have no right to ask anything of you --”

“Please, Will.”

“Call him back – he would consider it rude if you didn't – but give him only the most basic information. If he tries to bump into you somewhere, just give him pleasantries but decline any invitation to be alone with him. Keep your distance without being too obvious about it.” 

“I know what you think about him --”

“It's not what I _think_ about him, Alana. It's what I _know.”_

“What do you know, Will? You haven't told me the whole story. I know you're hiding something, something big – why?” 

Will lowered his eyes and started rubbing his forehead anxiously – a habit he'd never lost, even after the terrible headaches he'd suffered from had disappeared. “I kept things from you on purpose, because I didn't want you to get involved, to get...curious, and to start putting things together. I started putting things together, and look what happened to me.” 

Alana nodded. “I understand that you want to protect me. But you also told me that you needed my help to prove your innocence, that you couldn't do it on your own. Let me help you. Tell me what it is you're hiding. I don't want to see you back in prison.”

He turned away from her. “I don't know, Alana.”

“He might already think you've told me,” she continued. “We've been living together for nearly two months now. He is likely making the assumption that we're intimate. He can't possibly think our relationship is strictly professional at this point. He's not a stupid man.” She grabbed his hands, held them. “Tell me, baby. Why do you think Hannibal framed you? How do you know it was him?” 

Alana held his hands in hers and waited. He was terrified – she hadn't seen him so afraid since the day of his hearing. It was a while before he spoke again; he was waging a war within himself. “Promise me that you won't mention any of this to him, or to Jack. This stays between us for now.” 

“I promise.” 

“There are several reasons why I'm sure it was Dr. Lecter who framed me. The first is this: only two people besides me had keys to my house, you and him. There were never any signs of a break-in, no tool marks on the doors, nothing on the windows. Unless it's you framing me – which I sincerely hope is not the case, because I would be _screwed_ – it has to be him.” 

“You were very sick for a long time. You're absolutely sure that no one could have gotten into your house? Georgia Madchen did.” 

“Georgia hid in my car. She snuck in while I was in the yard with the dogs that night, not to hurt me, but to ask for help.” He began pacing anxiously, filling with nervous energy. “Alana, think this through as if it was a case. The person who framed me knows about serial killers, knows that many collect trophies from their victims. He knew that I made my own fishing lures: that's not a detail of my personal life that I share with everyone. He knew details about all of the cases that the police or the FBI didn't release, and not just what he read from Freddie Lounds. He knew just enough about forensics to know how to avoid leaving DNA and to know where to plant it, but he's not an expert – not police, not FBI. The night that I came home from Minnesota, he needed time to plant evidence, to scratch me up, plant Abigail's DNA on me, and make me eat her ear without realizing it. That means someone with access to pharmaceuticals. I don't remember that night not because I was sick, but because I was drugged.” He stopped pacing and looked straight at her. “What's his profile? Who is he?” 

Alana considered for a moment. “Someone who knows you well, who is familiar with your ways and habits. Someone who has detailed information about the cases, so someone on the inside of the FBI investigations. Someone who regarded you as a threat and wanted you discredited, but not dead. Like you said, someone with access to your house, access to drugs, and knowledge of dosages.” 

“There's only one person that fits that profile, Alana – Dr. Lecter. I told him way too much about the cases I was working on. I see it now, in hindsight; it was a serious mistake. He helped me think things through and seemed genuinely curious. He provided true insights. I felt like I could trust him.” 

Will had a point, although Alana was still struggling with it. “Okay, so let's say that you're right...he did frame you. But there's more to it. This is personal, Will. It's not just that you got too close – why not just kill you instead? If he wanted you dead, he could have made you disappear and not many people would have asked questions: most of everyone, including Jack, would have assumed you lost it and either killed yourself or disappeared. If Hannibal did this, he had a reason why he kept you alive, a reason why he had you put in prison.” Something in Will's face changed as she made that last statement. “You know, don't you?” she said. “He told you.”

He shook his head. “I don't want to talk about that right now.” He was upset – his hands were trembling. 

“Okay. Tell me what you want to tell me.” 

“The first copycat murder happened a few days after I met Dr. Lecter. Jack brought him into the office, asked him about the case. Dr. Lecter gave him some information – nothing spectacular, stuff we already knew – but I figured out that bringing Dr. Lecter in to consult on the case was just a ruse. He was really there to see me.” 

Alana nodded.

“Cassie Boyle's murder was like a mockery of Hobbs's murders – it was the exact opposite of what Hobbs was doing with his victims. It was obvious to me that Hobbs did not kill Cassie Boyle, that Cassie Boyle's killer was having fun, experimenting, deriving pleasure from performing a murder like Hobbs's, but with his own signature, his own twist.” 

“It was more than just a copycat murder.” 

“Yes, it had a purpose. I didn't know entirely what it was, except that it made the facts about Hobbs clearer to me. 

“Then we all returned to Minnesota with Abigail, and Marissa is killed and displayed in the cabin: again, like a mockery of Hobbs's murders rather than an attempt to copy them exactly. We found Nick Boyle's DNA at the scene, but it didn't make sense to me – why would he kill his own sister to copy a murder, and then come to Abigail's house to try to confront her about it? Why would he kill Marissa, who had no connection to Abigail besides being her friend? The copycat had no emotional connection to Hobbs, and Nick Boyle would have had an emotional connection to the case, since it was his sister that was murdered. He would have wanted to avenge his sister's death, and killing Marissa wasn't enough. I never believed for a moment that Nick Boyle was the copycat, but Jack did, and so the case was closed. He wasn't willing to pursue it any further. 

“But something else happened in Minnesota, something you don't know about. Abigail killed Nick Boyle. He attacked her that night in the house – Dr. Lecter lied when he said he was knocked out when it happened. He saw the whole thing. He helped Abigail bury the body and cover up the murder, and when I figured it out, he tried to convince me to protect Abigail from Jack, to cover it up too.” 

“What? Will! Oh, my God! I knew Abigail knew more about Nick Boyle's death but I trusted Hannibal – he's been lying about it the whole time?” 

“He's lied a lot. He lied his way through his deposition – the timeline he presented of my illness was completely wrong, as I told you. I asked Bailey to send me the video. I was showing symptoms much earlier than February. My whole file's been corrupted, it's full of bullshit. You can't trust anything in there, especially if he was collaborating with Chilton.”

“You were already sick in November, when Cassie Boyle was killed. You admitted that to me.”

“But I wasn't sick enough to be losing time. I was home in Wolf Trap the whole weekend that Cassie Boyle was abducted and killed. I went to the supermarket, I went fishing. I wasn't anywhere near Minnesota. I _remember.”_

“Do you remember where you were when Dr. Sutcliffe and Georgia Madchen were killed?”

“Yes. I was in the MRI machine when Dr. Sutcliffe was killed. I think I fell asleep in there. I woke when the table of the machine moved when the scan was over. When I came out of the exam room, the office was silent and Sutcliffe was dead. Beverly checked me and my clothes and said it was impossible I could have killed him, and no clothing with his blood on it was ever found there. If I killed him, I would have had to come out of the machine somehow, kill him, clean myself up, find another hospital gown, and then climb back into the machine to try to fool myself into thinking I didn't kill him.”

“That's unlikely, at best,” Alana admitted. 

Will went on. “I was in the same hospital when Georgia Madchen was killed, and I did visit her, but I never opened her hyperbaric chamber – I didn't even know how. Dr. Lecter came to visit me the afternoon she died, and after he visited, I fell asleep. I wasn't losing time in the hospital.”

“Because you were being treated. Your symptoms had alleviated.” Will nodded. “Tell me more about Abigail,” Alana said. “How else was she involved in this?” 

“I told Dr. Lecter that I was taking Abigail to Minnesota with me to trace the copycat. He told me not to take her, but what did I care? All I cared about was solving the puzzle, and I didn't foresee any danger for her. I took Abigail to the cabin, but I lost her there. I had...I don't know what it was exactly, but Dr. Lecter called them 'episodes.'”

“Seizures. They're a symptom of advanced encephalitis.” 

“Abigail was scared. She told me that she helped with her father's murders – all of the murders. I was angry at her for making me cover for her, and at myself for not being able to see her part in everything. We exchanged words – I must have had another seizure because the next thing I remember, I was on the plane home in Dulles.”

He reached out and held her hands tightly, as if he could convince her by his touch alone. “I didn't kill her, Alana. I had no blood on my hands, no scratches on my arms. All my clothes were clean. I remember. The security footage from the airport proves this. Abigail ran away from her father's cabin and I left her in Minnesota. After the flight, I was feeling very sick and I went home to rest, to try to sort things out. I was going to go back as soon as I felt better, to try to find her and apologize to her. I remember coming home. I was feverish. I could barely think. And then...there's a blank.” 

“And you woke the next morning with her DNA all over you and her ear in your stomach.” Alana paused, thinking back to his arrest file, the pictures and notes from Beverly, Price, and Zeller. “And there was mud all over your feet, it's on the evidence report from when you were arrested. And Winston...he was covered in mud when he was brought into the pound. I thought it was weird that he was so dirty when the other dogs were clean.” She nodded, coming to her conclusion. “You must have sleepwalked. It's a side effect of hypnotic sleep drugs like Ambien.”

“I've sleepwalked without Ambien. That doesn't prove anything, unfortunately.” 

“It's circumstantial. If Hannibal was there, he must have gotten you back inside the house somehow, before you could wake. He wouldn't have had much time.” She paused for a while, thinking about what he was telling her, before she asked her next question. “Did you think when you went to Minnesota after Abigail died that Hannibal was framing you?”

“I wasn't sure. I knew the copycat had to be someone close, but my thoughts were...muddled. I think part of me knew, and that part was struggling to get out, to be heard. I just couldn't see it until something he said...”

“What did he say?” 

“He said that I had “urges”…that I was fighting them. He said that I should think of them as inspirations, that I should cultivate them and allow myself to become someone else. I see it now, especially in light of what you told me about Chilton: it wasn't that he _thought_ that I had multiple personalities, it was that he _wanted_ me to have them, or something like them. He wanted to convince me that I was a murderer. He _wanted_ me to be a murderer. But I'm _not_ a murderer. I didn't kill any of those people, not even during a seizure or when I was missing time. And if Dr. Lecter framed me, that only means that either he committed the crimes himself or he knows who did and is covering for them. Who would he take that risk for? Anyone you know?”

“No, Will. He's not close to anyone.” 

“I thought maybe that it was Abigail, but when she died, too, I knew – he's the copycat, and he killed Abigail because she figured it out. Jack was about to arrest her, and she was not going to protect him, not if she was faced with murder charges. And when I came close to figuring it out, when my mind cleared up and I started making connections between his murders, he framed me to protect himself. That's what happened. That's the truth. I can't prove it, not yet, but that's what I know.” 

Will went silent, gaging Alana's reaction. She had to admit that Will's reasoning did make sense, but it was difficult for her to reconcile the man she'd known for years – the man who had been her mentor and her friend – with the man that Will was describing. But she'd already admitted that Hannibal's treatment of Will didn't make sense: he'd appeared to miss obvious signs of physical illness for months, there was evidence he was engaging in some kind of collaboration with Chilton involving a diagnosis of dissociative identity, and it was true that the timeline of Will's illness that Hannibal had presented during his deposition didn't match Will's account. 

One of them was lying. Was it Will or Hannibal? Logically, Will would have the most reason to lie, as he was up against murder charges, but Alana did not believe he was lying. She also did not believe he was capable of murder. And, if she believed Will's account, there was evidence that Hannibal was lying, that he had already lied. But was Hannibal right? Did Will have an alter? 

_Follow your instincts,_ she told herself. _Trust yourself. You know Hannibal's wrong. You've lived with Will for months; known him for years. He's off antipsychotics and there's never been any evidence of any alters, of any psychotic episodes. He's stable, even doing better than you expected._

Will looked disappointed at her long silence; he spoke again. “I know I'm asking a lot of you. I don't know if _I'd_ believe me, if our situations were reversed. But, please, just think about it as objectively as you can.”

“I can't think about it objectively, Will. That's the problem.” 

Will was silent again for a long while. Suddenly, she realized he was crying: he hadn't cried since the night he was released from custody, when he sat on her sofa and mourned what he'd lost. Alana embraced him, wrapped an arm around him and threaded her fingers through his hair. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “I would never lie to you. I love you. I'm not a murderer. I can't convince you any other way than to tell you the truth. That's all I have any more.”

Alana felt herself begin to cry as she held him. “I know, baby. I know,” she whispered. 

“What can I do to make you believe me?” 

She continued to hold him. “It's not you. You've told me everything you know. I don't believe you're lying to me.” 

“I'm not sick any more. I'm not delusional. I _know_ what happened.” 

Alana's heart broke for him: she couldn't imagine what it was like to have your memory constantly called into question, to be told you were delusional or crazy. _And I was one of those people,_ she thought. _I told Will not to talk about his suspicions about Hannibal at trial. I urged him to plead guilty. And now..._

“Will,” she said, looking up into his face, “you took a huge risk by not telling me this. If I'd known --”

Will lowered his eyes. “Jack knew and it didn't make any difference. I told him everything I just told you. His mind was already made up about me.”

“ _My_ mind wasn't made up. I would have testified differently, convinced Jack to investigate more thoroughly --” 

“And you could have ended up dead.” He ran a hand through her hair. “Alana, look what he did to me. Look what he did to Abigail. He will do anything, _anything_ to protect himself.” He sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead again. “I've been trying not to interfere with you, but I can't protect you when you're not here. And now Lecter's at Quantico more and more consulting on cases, and you being in danger is all I can think about. I didn't want to tell you this for this reason. I figured the less you knew, the better, but that's not true any more, is it? He's not calling you because he cares about me. He's calling you to see how much you know, to see if your opinion of him has changed. 

“Please, Alana...please, stay away from him. Don't ever be alone with him. Don't let on that you know anything. If he even gets the slightest hint that you know more, I'm afraid of what he'll do. I'm afraid of what he'll do anyway, since he knows we're together. Like you said, he might just act on suspicion – a man like him doesn't care about proof.”

She nodded, resigned. “I'll take a leave of absence from teaching at Quantico.”

Will looked shocked. “You will?”

“Yes. I'll tell Jack that I'm working on a project – hell, I might even actually work on one – and I won't be able to lecture. If he wants to call me in to profile, they can send me the files and I can do it from home. I'll stay at Georgetown and do research, get some articles published for tenure review. I'll pick up more clients for the court system so we won't miss the income. There's plenty that I can do.”

Will hugged her this time. “Thank you.” She could feel tension leaving his body. 

“I'll be careful at Georgetown, too,” she said. “Hannibal can find my office easily. I'll make sure I leave early, that Serafina or one of my colleagues walks with me to my car. Summer's coming soon, anyway, so we can go wherever we need to go together.” 

“Anything off happens, call me, okay? Your car stalls, you have a flat, you don't feel safe – call me.”

“I will,” she said. “I promise.” 

Will nodded. “Now call that fucker back and tell him to leave us the hell alone. Politely.” 

Alana laughed, despite herself.


	10. Chapter Ten

The next day, Alana sat in her office at Georgetown, reviewing her thick file on Will's case. The file contained a jump drive with Will's arrest report and the photos of his injuries. She had read the report when she was preparing for her deposition, but the photos were extensive and she'd only given them a cursory glance. Now she had something to look for: needle marks. It was possible that Hannibal had drugged Will's food or drink, but she was hoping to find needle marks on Will's body to corroborate his suspicion that Hannibal had drugged him. The FBI had never conducted a blood test on Will – they'd had no reason to – so needle marks were her only hope of finding physical evidence of the drugging. 

Now that Will's illness had passed, it was shocking to see how bad he'd looked – he was pale and sweaty, unfocused, in visible shock. She'd seen the same signs in victims of trauma just after the event. Will was disturbed by what was happening; he didn't understand it. Alana knew that he didn't have the ability, at that time, to lie or hide anything. _He wasn't delusional,_ she thought. _He was desperate. I should have been able to recognize the difference._

Price had been thorough: there were pictures of all the scratches on Will's body, his muddy feet, his hands and fingernails. She was looking more carefully now, trying to find the place where Hannibal might have injected him – in the neck, perhaps, or, more likely, in an arm. The pictures were high-definition, but she still wasn't finding what she was looking for. 

She scrolled through and reached a new set of pictures she'd never seen: Will had taken his shirt off and was in his underwear. There were pictures of his torso, and she noticed the early signs of significant bruising on his upper abdomen and ribcage. She scrolled through, then reached pictures of his back. There were more signs of bruising between his shoulder blades. Will had mentioned that he and Abigail had exchanged words, but nothing about a physical confrontation. So why was he covered in bruises? 

She called Beverly, hoping she was available to talk. “Are you busy?” Alana asked when Beverly picked up the phone.

“Just going through some stuff we were sent. What's up?”

Alana paused. “Can anyone hear our conversation?”

“No, room's empty.” 

“All right,” Alana said. “I'm going back over the photos from Will's arrest report, and his ribs, abdomen, and back are covered in bruises. Do you have any idea about how he might have gotten them?” 

Beverly paused for a few moments, as if she was remembering the case. “I don't think we ever had a definitive explanation, but we thought Will had picked them up in the struggle with Abigail.” 

Alana shook her head as Beverly was talking. “No, a kick or thrust to where that bruise is on his upper abdomen would have disabled him. He wouldn't have been able to breathe...”

Her mind flashed back to Will's recurring dream – the dream where he woke up coughing like he was choking, unable to breathe. The first time, Alana thought he _had_ been choking, and had thumped on his back to clear his airway...

“Thanks, Beverly. I'll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Talk to you soon.” 

Alana hung up and got up from her desk with a surge of energy. The relationship between trauma and memory was a tricky one – even if the victim couldn't recall the trauma immediately with their waking memory, their body sometimes remembered and reacted involuntarily, like an abuse victim shying away from touch. Will kept saying he couldn't remember the dream, but there was a memory there, buried deep, coming out when his mind relaxed and he slept. 

Alana sat down at her desk again and looked through her file for Will's records from the hospital in Minnesota. There was the neurologist's report, his psych evaluation, reports from the ICU intensivists...and the ER report. She scanned through, looking for the ER doctor's name. Alana had never spoken with her, but there was an office number listed on the report. 

Alana called the number and left a message. She wasn't sure when, or if, the doctor would call her back, and was looking through Price's photos again when her phone rang. It was the doctor. Alana apologized about the case being so long ago, but pressed her for anything she could remember about Will's initial visit to the ER. To her surprise, the doctor's memories were detailed. “It's not often we get accused serial killers with advanced encephalitis here in the ER,” she said. “What did you want to know?”

“I have a specific question, actually. I wanted to know if you noticed any bruises on Will Graham when he was admitted, mainly on his upper abdomen and back.” 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” she said. “I noticed some pretty serious bruising on his belly when I examined him, indicative of blunt force. I examined him for trauma and bleeding but I didn't find anything initially. I did a FAST ultrasound just to be sure. Everything was normal.” 

“How about his back?” Alana asked. 

“The neurologist and I found those, too, when we turned him for the spinal tap. They were pretty serious.” 

“Did the bruising or pattern of bruising suggest anything to you?”

“I've seen it before in choking victims a few days after their episodes,” the doctor said. 

Alana wanted to scream and actually shoved her the side of her fist in her mouth to keep silent. _Hannibal, you fucker,_ she thought. When she had calmed enough, she thanked the doctor for her help and hung up. 

She got up again and started pacing around her office. Will had always said that, when he analyzed a case, he let the evidence speak to him – _now, let it speak to me,_ she thought. She started talking to herself in the quiet of her office. “Will choked on the ear the first time Hannibal tried to feed it to him, and he had to perform lifesaving measures. That's the reason why he wasn't able to plant more evidence – he ran out of time and Will was beginning to wake up. 

“But why would Hannibal feed the ear to him _again?_ He could have killed Will – he almost did, the first time. The ear was so theatrical. Hannibal could have just left it on the counter or something and it would have achieved a similar effect. But it fit the profile he was trying to develop – that the Hobbs alter killed Abigail, and that alter would have cannibalized her.”

She kept going, lost in her reconstruction. “But Will fought you. He didn't make it easy for you. He sleepwalked, he wandered away from you. You brought him back inside, but you were running out of time. He started to fight the drugs, to wake. That put a dampener in your plans – you expected a docile victim. You didn't hit him in the face, it would have been too obvious, but you got him in the ribs. It knocked the wind out of him, made him stop fighting so you could finish your plans as much as you could. Then you left him like the coward that you are, and when he called you you turned him in instead of covering for him, like you did for Abigail, because that was your plan all along.

“You son of a bitch, Hannibal. Will was right the whole time, and now we've got fucking _evidence,_ you fucker, and you're going to jail.” 

She paused, mid-pace. She had unconsciously balled her hands into fists; her nails had dug little half-moons into her palms. _I'm beginning to sound like Will,_ she thought. No, that wasn't quite right. _I'm beginning to_ feel _like him._

 

She came home early that afternoon. Will was in the kitchen, prepping dinner, when she pulled the utensils out of his hands, set them on the counter, and embraced him. “Alana?” he asked. “You okay?” 

“Hannibal almost killed you that night,” she said, laying her head against his chest. “That's what your dream is about – that dream you keep having about not being able to breathe. It's a flashback. You're trying to remember. You were semiconscious when it happened, under the influence of some kind of drug.”

“How do you know?” he asked. She could feel the warm vibration of his voice in his chest. 

“I don't, for sure. But I have my suspicions. I'm a profiler, too, remember?”

“What do you think happened?” 

She pulled apart from him, wanting to see his face as she told him. “Hannibal drugged you. I'm not sure how – I looked through Price's pictures but I couldn't find any needle marks, though that's likely how he did it. He probably did it while you were already asleep. While you were out, he planted the evidence on the fishing reels. He couldn't have planted it earlier because of the risk of you using them and destroying the evidence.”

Will nodded. 

“That took time: probably a few hours, since the reels had to be carefully assembled. They couldn't look rushed. He finished, and then he scratched you up, probably with Abigail's own hand, severed from her body. He planted blood and skin samples under your nails. He might have been ready to plant more evidence, but you got up and started sleepwalking. You ended up outside and Winston followed you. He would have had half an hour, at best, to bring you back inside, probably much less time. He got you inside but you started to fight him, to become more aware that there was an intruder in your house.”

“How do you know that?”

“He punched you in the ribcage. It would have knocked the wind out of you. He'd have no reason to do that unless you were fighting him.” 

Will nodded. “He's not brutal...that way.” 

Alana went on. “He didn't want to dose you with the sleeping drug again because it would have been dangerous to overdose you. He didn't want you to die. So he subdued you. But he was running out of time – you were semiconscious. He decided to plant the ear and get out. He figured he'd done enough to get you convicted.

“But it's very dangerous to feed something to a semiconscious or unconscious person. The first time he tried to get you to eat the ear, you choked on it. Hannibal hit you in the back and compressed your abdomen to try to bring it back up. There were bruises all over you when you were checked into the hospital. The ER doctor confirmed you had injuries consistent with a choking victim; she even checked your abdomen for bleeding since the force of compressions can cause internal injuries. 

“I figured he would have stopped there, left the ear on a plate on the counter or something, maybe with a knife and fork for full effect. But Hannibal _had_ to make you eat that ear – it was essential, because according to him, the Hobbs alter killed Abigail, and he would have cannibalized her. He figured out a way to get it down your esophagus somehow. I'm not sure how he did it. But it wasn't in your stomach long before you woke completely and Hannibal was gone.” 

Will rubbed his forehead. “I was so sick when I woke up that morning. It was like I couldn't see straight.” 

“You were in shock, baby. You were drugged and physically assaulted. But you fought back in every way you could. You didn't make it easy for him.” Alana looked deep into his eyes. “He framed you. You were right the whole time.” 

“You believe me?” Will asked. There was something in his voice, something she hadn't heard before, or in a very long time: hope. 

“Yes,” she whispered. And with that word, she broke; the floodgates opened and she started to cry. “I'm sorry...I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. I'm sorry I thought you were delusional. I'm sorry I told you that you were.” 

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head. But Alana wanted more: she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him passionately, needing him, wanting him. _I love you and you are innocent and you always were,_ she thought, and the injustice of it all made her cry again, and she pulled away from him. 

“Alana, _please,_ ” he said, misinterpreting why she pulled away. But he saw that she was sobbing, and she couldn't kiss him because she was crying too hard. “It's okay,” he said, running a hand through her hair, trying to soothe her. “It's okay.” 

“It's _not_ okay, Will!” she said, angry now – not at him, but at Hannibal, and at herself. “They _tortured_ you in that hellhole in Baltimore and you lost everything, _everything!_ And I stood by and watched it all happen because I couldn't believe Hannibal would do what he did to you. I _trusted_ him. And now I find out he wanted to cultivate some kind of bizarre murder family with you and Abigail, and when that didn't work out, he framed you for serial murder!”

She put her elbows on the counter and her head between her hands. “But _why?”_ she asked. “Why would he do this to you? There's more to this than just the copycat murders, and we need to find out what it is.” 

She lifted her head and looked at him. Will had gone pale and he had turned his eyes away from hers. “You know more, don't you?” she asked. “There's more to this story, more between you and him.”

“I _suspect_ more,” he said. 

“What else could there possibly _be,_ Will?”

“I don't know yet...not for sure.” And she knew, then, that whatever this was was not something he was willing to tell her yet. He was shutting down. 

“Whatever it is, you're terrified,” she said. “It's worse than him just being a copycat killer.” 

“This is why I want you to be careful. This is why I don't want you anywhere near him. He's dangerous...very, very dangerous.”

Alana embraced him again, kissed him again. “We'll solve it together. We'll get him, Will. He's going to go to prison for what he did to you and what he did to those people. I promise you. You're not alone any more.” 

Will was silent, but leaned into her embrace, and they continued to kiss each other passionately, caressing each other's bodies underneath their clothes. Alana's body ached with need and desire for him. It didn't matter to her any more that Will was her patient; she loved him and she wanted him, all of him, and she wasn't going to hold back this time because holding back had almost cost her everything. 

Finally, not able to stand it any longer, she grabbed his hand and led him over to the sofa, kicking off her heels along the way. She lay down and continued to kiss him deeply, arousal firing in her belly. He climbed on top of her carefully, straddling her. She pulled off his shirt, pulled down his jeans and boxers, and saw that he was getting hard. She kneaded his firm ass. She was getting wet already. She was still in her dress but it didn't matter; Will pulled down her panties and pulled a breast free from her bra, kissing her nipple and kneading it with his tongue. 

“Now, now...please, I don't want to wait any more,” she moaned. 

“You're ready?” he asked. 

“Yes...yes...baby, please.” 

He put his hand between her legs and massaged her clit and _oh, God, how the hell does he he know how to do that so well,_ she thought, her back arching with pleasure. He only entered her when she was close to orgasm, and the intercourse was fast and frenetic because they had waited so long. They came together, her nails digging into his back. She felt the warmth of his come inside of her and _oh, fuck, I forgot to tell him to pull out,_ she thought, too late. She had sweat in her Diane von Furstenberg dress and her panties were wrapped around one of her ankles and the dogs were watching them fuck on the couch and suddenly she was laughing at how it was both completely absurd and absolutely wonderful. 

“What's so funny?” Will asked. 

“Please, let's never fuck on this couch again,” she managed to say. “It's like the backseat of a car. With more dogs.” He laughed at that and kissed her again. 

“Want another go, or should I finish up dinner?” he asked, and the question made her howl again with laughter. When she quieted, she reached up and stroked his face, thinking about how much time and pleasure she'd wasted battling with herself over such a simple thing as sex when they were already so intimate in every other way. 

“We've got time for more,” she murmured back, and settled in to kissing him again. 

 

Just after nine the following morning, as Alana was driving to work, she scrolled through her list of contacts and made an urgent appointment with her gynecologist to obtain emergency contraception. 

Because she so rarely had sex partners, she wasn't on birth control, which meant she and Will had had unprotected sex. If there was even the most remote possibility she ended up pregnant, it would be assumed that Will was the father; he was living in her home. She could be forced off his case. This could not happen. She had gotten him this far and she was not going to give him up. 

Alana had rarely felt the stir of motherhood – she liked children, loved her nieces and nephews, but had never felt the need to have any children of her own. Many years ago, she had accepted the fact that she would likely never have children; it was the price she paid for her career. She would be thirty-six years old in the fall, reaching the end of the years where getting pregnant would be relatively easy and entering those where it would be difficult and risky. 

But as she drove towards Georgetown, the green foliage at the side of the highway glowing in the morning sun, she imagined a little girl with Will's eyes, and then a little boy, running with the dogs in the woods outside her home. She saw herself and Will, laughing at them, and Will was healthy and happy and beautifully complete. It could _be,_ if she wanted...it could be _soon,_ if she wanted.

_No, it can't,_ she told herself. _Case closed. You're going to go to the doctor and get Plan B and birth control and take it like a responsible adult and stop...whatever this is you keep thinking about with Will. You're not ready for it, and he certainly isn't._

But those rational thoughts didn't stop the cravings deep in her heart for something more, something else than what she'd had before, feelings that were alien to her and yet pleasurable beyond measure. 

 

Georgetown closed down for the summer, and Alana was able to spend more time at home with Will, since she wasn't teaching. The antidepressant she'd prescribed for him was working well, and now that he was more stable, Alana wanted to push his boundaries. He rarely left her property except to accompany her on errands. Part of the reason was obvious – Will didn't have access to his car, which had been impounded as evidence when he had been arrested, and he didn't have the means to buy another – but part of it, Alana believed, was that her house felt safe and secure for him. Sometimes, when he went out with her, people would recognize him from the television coverage of his trial and give him dirty looks. Mothers would tug their children out of his path, as if he was a rabid animal. 

Alana never wanted Will to feel as if he traded one prison for another. She knew she couldn't prevent or change how people reacted to him, but she wanted him to feel as comfortable as she could. She even proposed they take a trip out of the region, perhaps going south into the Carolinas for a while, but Will nixed the idea. He thought that traveling too far from home might make it look like he was trying to flee justice, which might make things worse. He argued that if the FBI was planning on rearresting him, they might rearrest him sooner if they thought he was a flight risk. Alana pointed out that he was, technically, a free man with the right to travel whenever and wherever he chose – the judge had not put any limitations on him. But Will was still hesitant to leave. 

So they stayed, taking long walks with the dogs and enjoying the warm weather. Alana wore cotton sundresses and Keds sneakers and braided her hair. Will had gained back the weight he'd lost in Baltimore State Hospital and was growing stronger from their walks. In the evenings, they ate dinner outside and lit a fire in the firepit to keep away the mosquitoes. 

One warm night toward the end of June, Alana and Will were sitting by the fire. Alana's bare feet were close to it, and she could feel its heat on the sensitive skin of her soles. She was halfway through her third beer and was feeling very comfortable.

“Alana? Can I ask you something?” Will asked, very quietly.

“Sure, baby. What is it?” 

“You have a guest room, which means you used to have guests. But you never go out with any friends. You rarely talk to your brothers or your parents. Your life wasn't always like this; I know it wasn't. It's because of me, isn't it?” 

Alana sighed. “My relationships with pretty much everyone have become strained. And no, it wasn't because of you, not entirely. A huge part of it was my fault – I got so wrapped up in your case, especially towards the end, that I neglected my friendships. I don't blame them from giving up on me.” 

Will frowned. “I don't want to keep you away from people. It wouldn't bother me if you spent time with other people.”

“I don't really want to,” she said. “That's the weird part. I love you, I love being with you, and I'm tired of facing awkward questions from everyone else.” 

“People ask you why you're with me.”

“Yes, and worse. And I'm tired of defending you to people who don't know you, what you've been through, what we've been through together, or even have any idea what they're talking about, really.” 

Will looked down into his lap. “I don't want to be bad for you.” 

Alana grabbed his hand and held it. “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I honestly mean that.” She interlaced her fingers through his. “I'm a better person because of you.”

“You were always a good person,” Will said, and he was looking at her again. 

“I was quick to judge people and to dismiss people. I usually believed I was right about everything. And then I had to face the fact that I was wrong about you, wrong about Hannibal, and that changed me. It made me better.” 

Will smiled. He seemed to want to say something to her, but he was stopping himself. Alana could tell. She decided not to push him. “I love you,” he finally murmured to her.

“I love you, too,” she said. “So much.” 

They sat for a while longer, watching the fire, their fingers still intertwined. Will had a small smile on his face; Alana could not remember ever seeing him smile for so long. “What are you thinking?” she asked. 

He chuckled. “It's embarrassing.”

“Tell me. I won't laugh, I promise.” 

“You know that song by Eric Clapton, 'Wonderful Tonight'? That's the perfect song for you, right now.”

She gasped. “Know it? I _have_ it. Hold on a moment while I put it on.” She went inside and grabbed her iPod and the little player she had for it in the kitchen, plugged it into the wall, and set it out on the porch. The song started and she started to pull Will up from his chair. 

“No, no, no, I'm a terrible dancer,” he said, shaking his head. 

“There's no one to see us. Come and dance with me.” 

They didn't really dance so much as sway in unison, and she suspected Will was being careful not to step on her feet. Alana let the song play three times. She lay her head on his chest and listened to his heart beating calmly, and felt like she finally knew what love was.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Though Will was doing very well in every other aspect of his recovery, he was still prone to bouts of insomnia and restlessness. Alana had increased his sedative dosage at night to help him sleep, but it didn't always work. A few times a week, she woke to find his side of the bed empty. He was usually on her laptop, reading, or watching TV, trying to relax enough so that he could go back to sleep.

One morning near the end of June, she woke to find him looking through the case notes and photos of a file she had been sent to profile. She kissed him behind his ear, smelled the clean smell of his hair. “Back to work?”

“Not officially. I was just looking through the file.” 

She leaned in next to him, placing her face close to his, her mouth close to his ear. “Can you help?”

“Yeah. I think I can,” he said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. He turned to Alana, his eyebrows raised. “Anything I say, you can tell Jack you thought of it.”

“He'd know,” she said, chuckling. “He knows your style too well.” Will smiled at that. 

She came around and sat down on the sofa next to him, allowing him to raise the pillow he'd balanced the laptop on so she could put her legs in his lap. “Freddie Lounds contacted me,” he said, giving her a significant look. 

“She contacted you? She thinks you're a psychopath. She hates you.”

“I have a similar distaste for her,” Will said, his expression deadpan. 

“What did she want?” 

“In spite of her personal feelings toward me, she's intrigued by my case. She said that she has information that may interest me.” 

“She was in court for your hearing, you know.”

“I don't remember seeing her.” 

“She was in the press section, towards the back. You can't miss her hair.” Alana studied his face for a moment. “So are you going to contact her back?” 

“I haven't decided yet. I know she'll want something and I don't have anything to give.” 

“You should contact her back,” Alana said. “See what information she has. It must be important if she wants to talk to you.” 

Will frowned. “If she's willing to degrade herself enough to talk to me.” 

“Maybe that's not the case any more,” Alana said. “In essence, she's on the same side we are. She wants to find the truth.”

“But her truth very likely operates under the assumption that I'm a serial killer.”

“Maybe,” Alana shrugged. She frowned then, too. “Probably.” Will smiled ironically. 

 

Will's fortieth birthday was in the first week of July. Alana wanted to have a small celebration for him, so with his permission, she invited Beverly and Saul to the house for drinks and dinner. Saul offered to cook for them. Alana told Beverly that Will didn't want anything fancy, so Saul settled on pizza Margherita, linguine with clam sauce, and, unbeknownst to Will, a small chocolate birthday cake. 

That evening, Alana put on a lacy black dress that she knew Will loved because it showed off her back and pulled her hair back into a chignon. Will came into the bathroom and nuzzled her shoulder and neck. “Easy, tiger,” she said. “We're having guests.” 

He wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his chin on her shoulder, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” he murmured. “Thank you for the party.”

“I didn't do much. Saul's doing the cooking.”

“Still, it's nice. I've never had a birthday party before.” 

“Never?”

“Not that I can remember, anyway. I might have had a first birthday, when my parents were still together. I've never seen pictures if that's the case.” 

Alana reached back, using the mirror to guide her hand, and stroked the hair at the side of his head tenderly. Will was still very hesitant to open up about his childhood, even to her, and she suspected there was a deep well of pain there that he had spent most of his adult life avoiding. “I'm glad to be giving you your first party,” she said, still stroking his hair. “I'm honored.” _I wish it was more,_ she thought. _I wish this house was packed full of people who know how wonderful a person you are._ “I'm just going to finish my makeup,” she said, patting his cheek. “I'll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. 

She put on her shoes and came downstairs. Will was out in the yard with the dogs, letting them run around before Beverly and Saul arrived. The sun was setting rapidly. 

Alana walked up to Will and put an arm around his waist, and he put his arm around her. She thought he looked very handsome in his simple dress shirt and trousers, and though he disliked cologne, he smelled good – a mixture of soap and aftershave and shampoo. “So I did have an idea for a present for you,” she said, “but I wasn't sure what kinds of feelings it would bring up.”

“There's nothing I need,” he said, looking down at her. His keen eyes were shining in the twilight. 

“There was something I wanted to give back to you,” she said. “I thought it would be right if you had it back. But I can understand if you didn't want it back yet...or ever.” 

“What is it?” 

“I was going to get you a new fly-fishing kit.” She gripped his waist a little more tightly, but he didn't seem to be upset. He just looked sad.

“I bought Abigail a kit but I never gave it to her,” he said. 

“Why not?”

“I thought it was inappropriate. I killed her father.” 

“You had no choice.” 

He was quiet for a little while. “Killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs stirred up strange feelings in me.” 

“Of course it did. And Hannibal tried to exploit those feelings for his own reasons. I know he did.” 

Will looked troubled. Alana said, “We can talk about it, if you want, when we have our next session.” 

“I'm worried about what you'll think about me,” he replied. 

“I'm pretty sure I already know how you felt, and, for the record, I don't think any less of you. But if you're not ready to talk about that, it's okay.” She pulled herself closer to him, hugging his waist. “I know how much you loved to fish. Hannibal doesn't have the right to take that away from you.” 

Will shook his head. “It's too soon. But thank you for thinking of it.”

“I understand.” She kissed his shoulder lightly. “Let's get the dogs in. Beverly and Saul will be here in a few minutes.”

He nodded. “You stay here, you're wearing heels. I'll get them.” 

Beverly and Saul arrived at eight, laden with groceries for the meal and Will's birthday cake in a Tupperware cake holder. Within minutes, Alana had served wine and beer, and they were all gathered in the kitchen talking. Saul was eager to show off his skills with the pizza dough, and after he tossed it high up into the air and caught it with a flourish, they all applauded, laughing. 

“So, for the record,” Beverly said to Will, “I am so not surprised to find out you're a Cancer.”

“Uh oh,” Saul said from where he stood at the stovetop, “here she goes.” 

“You like astrology, Beverly?” Alana asked. 

“It was my grandmother's favorite pastime. Anytime she met someone new, it was her first question: 'What's your sign? When were you born?' Then she would tell them all about their personality.”

“So what would your grandmother say if she met Will?” Alana asked. 

“She taught me that Cancers are very empathetic --” 

“How surprising,” Alana said, nudging Will gently. 

“And they have strong imaginations --”

“Again, shocking,” Alana said sarcastically. 

“And they are very sensitive, and they love home and family. They're very romantic. But they have problems sometimes coming out of their shells – they're the crab, you see. Their shell is part of them and it feels safe. That's why they can be moody, too.” 

“That sounds remarkably accurate,” Alana said, nodding approvingly and glancing at Will, her eyebrows raised. 

“Alana, when's your birthday?” Beverly asked. 

“September. I'm a Virgo.” 

“You're a good match with Will, then. Virgos are very sensible, practical, and detail-oriented. They are very disciplined and good at controlling their emotions. They love to serve and help others and are passionate about their work. You're a proper Virgo, too.” 

“This is interesting! Why are we good as a couple?” Alana asked. 

Beverly smiled. “Well, Alana, you've got powerful observation, which is what makes you a good psychiatrist. You're also good at telling what mood your partner's in or if he's upset simply by observing him. And Will, your passion and empathy and romantic nature suits Alana because Virgos can be a bit tight-laced. You bring out her emotional and caring side.” 

“Did you do this with Saul when you first met him?” Will asked. 

“Oh, absolutely. I snuck a look at his driver's license when he opened his wallet.” They all laughed, including Saul. 

Their meal was ready quickly, and they all sat down at the dining room table to eat. Secretly, Alana had been a bit worried about how the night would go – she and Will had been isolated for months, and Will wasn't sociable at the best of times. But Saul was very kind and very engaging, and didn't seem to expect much from Will. Alana supposed Beverly had warned him about Will's idiosyncrasies, because he didn't push Will into conversation, aside from asking him about the dogs. Saul told funny stories, and talked about how he and Beverly met. He had done a lot of traveling and was full of anecdotes about food and restaurants. Alana thought he and Beverly were well-suited to each other, in spite of their very different backgrounds, because they were both funny and clever and had good chemistry. 

Will participated in the conversation when he could, but spent more time listening, as was his preference. Alana held his hand under the table. He couldn't drink much because of his medications, but he seemed comfortable enough. 

When their conversation hit a lull, Beverly smiled at Will. “You look great,” she said. 

Will smiled back. “Alana's taken good care of me. She deserves all the credit.” 

Alana rubbed his knee affectionately, smiling at him. “It's not all me. You're doing remarkably well.” She turned toward Beverly and Saul. “Tomorrow, it'll be three months since he was released.” 

“Congratulations, Will,” Beverly said, and Saul nodded approvingly. “Honestly, it's like you're a different person since I was here last. I mean, you're still you, but...not that you that came out of that place.” She was choosing her words carefully, and Alana appreciated her sensitivity. 

“I'm happy to see you guys finally together,” Beverly continued.

“Finally?” Alana asked, smiling. 

“I always knew you liked Will. You tried so hard to hide it, too, but it was all in your face when you looked at him. You'd soften up. You didn't do that with anyone else.”

“It was that obvious?” 

“I don't know if it was obvious, but if you knew what to look for, you could see it. You both were totally crazy about each other. You were one of the few people Will would look at in the eye for more than, like, three seconds at a time.”

Both Alana and Will laughed. Alana looked at him and, overwhelmed with affection, planted a kiss firmly on his mouth. “I am so, so proud of you, my love,” she said to him, and she felt that he knew there was more in her words than what Beverly and Saul suspected. 

After dinner was over, the plates taken up, and the leftovers packed – Will offered to help, but Alana, Beverly, and Saul refused him – they took Will's birthday cake out of the refrigerator and set it on a glass cake plate. Beverly put sparkling candles on it, turned the lights low, and brought it to the table, setting it in front of Will. Alana was recording the whole thing on video with her cell phone. 

“This is so embarrassing,” he muttered, resting his forehead on the ball of one of his hands. 

“Hush, it's your birthday and we're going to sing to you,” Alana said. 

“Just be glad there's no numbers on it,” Beverly said. 

“Hey, 40 is a good age,” Saul countered. “I enjoyed 40.” 

“Okay, everyone, on the count of three!” Alana ordered, still filming the ceremony on her camera. “One, two, three!” And on three, they started singing the birthday song, loudly and obnoxiously – Beverly lost it halfway through and started laughing – and then they were silent. “Make a wish!” Alana said.

But Will was just staring at the cake – taking it in – she thought, and time was beginning to stretch out uncomfortably. “Blow out the candles, baby,” she said, and Will looked up at her, his eyes shining, before turning back to the cake, taking a deep breath, and blowing out all the candles in one swoop. Beverly and Saul applauded, and Alana let out a happy whoop. 

Saul cut the cake into eight thick slices and served four. The cake was a spongy and moist chocolate with chocolate fudge icing, but it wasn't until the cake was cut that Alana saw that Saul had put chopped strawberries and cream in the middle of the layers. It was delicious. 

After dessert, Alana put on her Leonard Cohen DVD, one of Will's favorites, and they all sat in the family room, still talking with the music in the background. She had drank quite a bit and was getting more affectionate with Will. After an hour and another glass of wine, she sat partially curled in his lap, her shoes off, her legs resting across his, and her head resting on his shoulder. 

Once it was midnight, both Alana and Beverly agreed to end the party, since Beverly had to be at Quantico early in the morning for work. The four of them parted warmly, splitting the leftovers, and then Alana and Will went upstairs to make love. 

He undressed her slowly, unbuttoning and unzipping her dress and kissing her shoulders, then taking down her hair and letting it fall in its thick, sweet-smelling waves down her back. She ached for him, and when she told him to hurry, he told her that he was unwrapping his birthday present and he could take as long as he liked. She had never allowed herself to be so submissive to a partner's whims, and she found the experience intensely erotic. 

She let him pull off her dress and it fell to the carpet at her feet. She was in her bra and panties, and he removed those, too, very slowly and gently. Alana stood still and let him undress her, closing her eyes and savoring his soft touch on her naked skin, which felt electrified. Then she felt him slip his fingers between her legs, massaging her clit and inserting the tips of his fingers into her vagina, all the while nuzzling and kissing her neck. She moaned, getting wet with his touch. 

After a while, her knees were getting weak, and she was coming close to climax from his touch alone. She leaned back into him, and he held her against him with an arm around her waist. She could feel his hard cock against her back. “You're ready too, baby,” she whispered. 

“Shh,” he hushed in her ear, and the feel of his soft breath against her skin caused a surge of pleasure. She didn't know what it was about this time in particular, but she felt like every nerve, every cell in her body was heightened by submitting to him, of letting him take his own pleasure from her body. She wanted to reciprocate, to give him as much as he was giving her, but she would do that later. 

Just as she was on the edge of her climax, when she could hardly stand, he laid a hand gently on her back and led her to the bed. She lay down, facing him, and he spread her legs and put his head between them, teasing her clit with his tongue. Within seconds, her orgasm started, and he continued. She lost her head – she felt herself moving, but she was powerless to control herself, and the orgasm intensified. She thought she would go mad – her head emptied, and all that existed in that moment was her body. 

Once she was done, she pulled Will up by his shoulders and embraced him, letting him lay on top of her and kiss her deeply, passionately. “Not bad for a old man?” he asked softly. 

“I suspect you've gotten better with age,” she said, laughing and caressing his face. 

“You're perfect, you know,” he whispered. “You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, inside and out. That's all I could think about tonight.” 

“I love you,” she whispered, and she kissed him again, savoring the taste of him in her mouth. “Now it's my turn,” she said. “Take off your clothes. I want to see all of you.” 

He took off his socks and shirt, unbuckled and removed his trousers, and then slipped out of his underwear. Alana could see him growing hard again under the dark hair that led from his midriff. She slid down the bed, making room for him. 

She dominated him this time, stacking pillows up against the headboard of the bed and then pushing him up against them. She straddled him, giving him a full view of her breasts, and guided his erect cock inside of her. He had deferred his orgasm to please her, but he was _ready_ – Alana tried to draw it out of him slowly, but the intensity increased quickly, and soon she felt his warm come inside her, released with a moan, and there was no fear this time, only pleasure. 

 

Alana woke to a horrible moaning. Will had rolled onto his back next to her and was clearly having a nightmare. He had broken out into a cold sweat and his breaths were shallow. She thought it would be best to wake him, but she had to be gentle about it – he could accidentally strike her, in the throes of his nightmare.

She got out of bed and turned on the bedroom lamp, then called his name, gradually getting louder as he continued to thrash around. “Will! Wake up! Come on, wake up!” she said, shouting the last two words. At that, he finally woke, blinking absently up at her.

“You were having another nightmare,” she said.

He sat up and, to her surprise, grabbed her arm, panting. “Alana? You're okay?”

She sat down next to him and ran her hands through his sweaty hair. “I'm fine.” 

He took a trembling breath. He was shaking. “I had a horrible dream,” he said.

“It looked bad. What happened?”

He lowered his eyes, still panting. “Will,” she said. “Tell me.” 

“It was... _him._ He came here and I couldn't save you. God, Alana...” His voice cracked, and he put a hand over his mouth as if he was going to be sick.

Alana leaned forward and hugged him. “I don't think you're ready to go back to work yet,” she said, stroking his wet hair. 

“It's not that,” he murmured. 

“What is it, then?”

He sighed against her shoulder. Alana knew he was struggling. She continued stroking his hair and holding him close. “Let me in,” she whispered. “I'm not scared. I'm just worried about you.” 

He was silent for a long while. Alana thought a few times about giving up for tonight, telling him to take a shower and then go back to sleep, but she could sense that there was an opportunity there for her to get him to talk. He _had_ to talk. _Be patient,_ she urged herself. _Give him time._

He finally spoke. “He once said that I didn't have any walls to protect what I loved,” he said, very quietly. “I put up a wall for you and now I don't know how to take it down.”

“Brick by brick,” she whispered. She pulled apart from him and cradled his face in her hands. “You started to in your journal, remember? We have to keep going until it's gone,” she said. “Close your eyes.” He did. “Imagine the wall around me. Why did you put it up?”

Will's face crumpled; he was trying not to cry. “Because I had to keep you safe.”

“From what?”

“From him, and from whatever was wrong with me.” 

“There's nothing wrong with you now. Why am I still behind that wall?”

A few tears fell down his cheeks. “Because it keeps you safe...because it keeps you from _knowing._ ”

“Knowing what? What is it you don't want to tell me?” 

He shook his head. “Not yet, _please_...” She looked at his face, and there was pain there, in the lines at the corners of his eyes, at the way he pursed his mouth. She wiped his tears away. “Baby, that wall keeps me _isolated._ I don't want to be behind a wall, Will. I want to be with you.”

“I can't protect you,” he sobbed, opening his eyes. “I'm too weak. I'm a failure.” 

She shook her head. “Let's think about it differently,” she said. “Let's protect each other.”

“You're all I have left,” he said. “He can't take you from me. He _won't._ ”

“Then let's take him down first,” Alana said. “By whatever means necessary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, to everyone who has left comments and kudos! The next chapter will be longer, with a major appearance by everyone's favorite intrepid curly-haired crime blogger.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Alana was not a trained investigator, though she was a skilled profiler. Her job was to take what she knew about criminal psychology – what drove a person to do something, why the acts were symbolic and what they symbolized – and apply them to crime scenes in order to aid investigations. Will, with his background in forensics, did something both familiar and vastly different. For him, the crime scene told a story, something richer than just a psychological analysis. “All crime scenes tell stories,” he told her. “You just have to know the language they tell them in.” 

Alana found it ironic that she, the one person in her field that didn't give a shit about Will Graham's so-called “gifts,” was being taught them by him. Maybe that was why he taught her and no one else, precisely because she didn't give a shit, precisely because she could see his “gifts” weren't really gifts at all. (One evening during that warm, blissful July, as they sat outside and watched the fireflies, she asked him what he would do with his life if he could do anything at all. “Rescue dogs,” he said, chuckling. “I guess I got two Master's degrees in the wrong field for that.”

“Not necessarily,” she replied.) 

Will knew that even a killer as skilled as Hannibal left a trail, left clues and potential evidence, and they needed to find that evidence in order to prove Hannibal was the copycat killer and that Will was innocent. The FBI had done some of the work for them, when they investigated Abigail's death, but hers was only one of five Will was accused of. So Will and Alana buried themselves in the other four. 

They started with Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr, the two young women killed weeks apart when Hannibal was playacting as the Minnesota Shrike. Will wanted to know why Cassie Boyle was chosen as the victim and why she had been displayed so disgustingly. He felt, in his impalpable way, that something about her had offended Hannibal, but for what he knew of her background, she was a normal college girl, just like the other Shrike victims. He believed Marissa, on the other hand, was a gift for Abigail, as much as Cassie Boyle had been a sick sort of gift for him. Hannibal had wanted to see her reaction to Marissa's death, to see whether it disturbed her or excited her. He had wanted to gauge the potential of the killer in her. “He knew then, Alana,” Will said. “He knew that Abigail had a role in her father's murders. Why didn't we?” 

“Because she was vulnerable and young and beautiful,” Alana said. “She was _my_ patient and I missed it; I knew she was hiding something, but nothing like that. But she wasn't a bad person, Will – she wasn't a killer at heart, like her father. She helped because she felt like she had to, not because she enjoyed it.” 

Dr. Sutcliffe's death was also still a mystery to Will: he and Hannibal had been colleagues, had seemed cordial to each other and even shared jokes. It was Alana, with her knowledge of the politics of the medical community, who finally made the connection – Dr. Sutcliffe could figure out that Will's illness was not mental but physiological, and that would ruin Hannibal's plans for Will. That turned Dr. Sutcliffe into a threat, Alana reasoned, and Hannibal did not hesitate to eliminate anyone who was a threat to his plans. Alana said that Georgia Madchen had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time: she had seen Hannibal, although she was unable to recognize his face, but if her memory grew clearer after treatment, she could potentially give a description of him to the police. 

“Or he just enjoyed the game at that point,” Will said. After Abigail's murder, Georgia's had affected him the most. “Dr. Lecter robbed her of the chance to get better, to make up lost time with her mother,” Will said sadly. “Even if her memory improved, she would be an unreliable witness. In reality, she posed no threat to Dr. Lecter and he killed her anyway.” 

Will and Alana reconstructed a timeline of the murders with evidence from Bailey's files from the court cases and what they could remember. Will, whose strong memory only failed him for Abigail's murder, used his knowledge of forensics to figure out what evidence they could gather in order to prove his innocence. “I've already got my cell phone records,” he said. “I need closed-circuit camera footage of the hotel in Minnesota, the hospital, and Noble Hills, if it's available, and the keycard records from the hotel in Minnesota.”

“Where do we get those things?” Alana asked. 

“That's what I need to ask Freddie Lounds. If anyone can get them, she can.” 

Alana ordered a new cell phone for Will – it was primarily to communicate with Freddie, but Alana also thought it was a promising sign that he needed it because he was becoming more independent. According to Will, Freddie didn't know the depth of Alana's involvement in the investigation against Hannibal, and he preferred it to stay that way. 

One night, as they lay in bed together in that happy time after sex and before sleep, Will asked Alana, very quietly, if she was jealous of his relationship with Freddie. “Because I'm not attracted to her at all, you know,” he said, oddly nervous. “And I think she might actually be a lesbian. She slept with Zeller, but she said it was only for information.” 

Alana laughed. “I'm not worried. Anyway, how did the topic of her sleeping with Zeller even come up in conversation between you two?”

“I asked her about how she got information. She said she'd done pretty much everything, from bribes to sex. She was the one who mentioned she'd slept with Zeller. I didn't solicit that information.” 

“What do you think about her, now that you've been working with her more?” Alana asked, laying her head on his chest and putting an arm around his ribcage. “I know you used to hate her, and she you.”

Will had started playing with her hair, one of his favorite bedroom activities. “She's probably the most ambitious person I've ever met,” he said. “She will do anything for a story. But I don't think she's bad. She has morals in her real life, just not in her work life.”

“Is there a difference with her?” 

“A small one,” Will said, shrugging. 

July passed, too swiftly for Alana's taste. She would be back at work in early September, and she had to go to Quantico that same month to fill out her leave of absence paperwork before the next Academy training session started. One evening over dinner, she told Will about the difficulty and stress of the tenure process at Georgetown. “You could write about me, if you wanted,” he said. “It's fine with me if it helps you keep your job.” 

“I would _never_ write about you,” she said emphatically. 

“You said Chilton was chomping at the bit to write about me. I think Dr. Lecter was, too, though he wouldn't admit it.”

“They wanted to write about you having multiple personalities, which is a complete fabrication.” She shrugged. “Anyway, my writing about you in a professional manner would be an ethics violation. You and I are in a relationship, which means my data is compromised.” 

“Your data is compromised because you love me so much,” he said in a cutesy voice, smirking. Alana giggled and flicked a broccoli floret at him. “Nice smirk, by the way,” she said. “I haven't seen that a lot.”

“It comes out once in a while,” he said. “It waits for the proper occasion.” A serious look passed back onto his face. “I just don't want you to have lost an opportunity because you were so preoccupied with me.” 

Alana smiled at him. “The process is stressful and one can never be sure what will happen at the end, but I feel fairly safe. I'm still an M.D. I can always enter private practice.”

“But you like teaching.” 

“And I like Georgetown, but it's not the be-all and end-all of my world.” She grasped and held Will's hand across the table. “I'm glad I was preoccupied with you, Will. Someone needed to be.” She enjoyed the warmth of his hand in hers, and she intertwined her fingers with his. 

In August, Alana decided to update her laptop, and gave her old one to Will so he could work. She transferred her patient files, including Will's own file, to her new computer, while he kept up his file on Hannibal on her old computer. It filled her with an odd happiness to see all the little mannerisms he adopted when he was working hard, tapping away at the keyboard – how he would move his head as he typed, or rub his lip, or sometimes even stare at the screen for long minutes, his focus laser-intense but his mind somewhere else. There was a depth to his perception that she would never know about, no matter how carefully and vividly he described it to her, but it was okay. She was never jealous of Will; she only pitied him, and he loved her because of that. 

One morning in the middle of August, she woke to find Will's side of the bed empty. His insomnia and sleep issues had improved slightly, but it was still not unusual for him to only sleep a few hours a night. She got up, went downstairs with Missy and Winston trailing her, and found Will in the kitchen, staring out the window. There was a cup of coffee, growing cold, on the counter near him. 

“Good morning, baby,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. He responded by grasping her hands, but he was silent. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“Freddie and I think Dr. Lecter's killed a patient,” he said. 

Alana loosened her arms and walked around to face him. “Which patient?”

“His name is Benjamin Raspail. He is – was – a musician in the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Officially, he's a missing person. He was one of Dr. Lecter's patients.”

“Why do you suspect he's dead?”

“His mother spoke with him the afternoon he disappeared. He mentioned that he had a session with Dr. Lecter that evening. His mother tried to call him back later that night, after his session, but there was no answer. He hasn't answered his phone since that final conversation with his mother. His family insists he was very close with all of them and that he wouldn't just disappear without warning.” 

Alana nodded and bit her lip. “So if he made it to that evening session, then one of the last, if not the last person he was seen alive with was Hannibal.”

“Exactly.” 

“Have the police investigated?”

“He's still a missing person as of now and there are no signs of foul play, no signs of violence in his apartment. His cell phone, keys, wallet, and car are missing, though. His cat wasn't fed, either.”

“Like he never came home.”

Will nodded. “Freddie used her contacts at the Baltimore PD to find out the information about the last time anyone heard from him, and that Dr. Lecter was questioned but isn't considered a suspect. No motive.” Will's eyebrows rose when he said the last. “But,” he continued, the tone of his voice rising a notch, “Raspail was openly gay and was well-known in the Baltimore gay and lesbian community, so there's some interest in his disappearance from that source as well.” 

“Which means there could be pressure to solve the case from the community.”

“Potentially.” Will took a deep breath. “I've been looking into Dr. Lecter's records – it hasn't been legal, exactly, but I've discovered a lot of unusual things about his patients. Some have died within months after meeting him. Some go missing under mysterious circumstances -- Raspail's only the latest possibility. And some perform violent acts after he's treated them, either against themselves or other people. There's me, of course – I don't actually fit into the pattern, but that's certainly not without him trying. The patient that attacked his psychiatrist was a former patient of his; he referred him to Dr. Du Maurier and the patient attacked her during one of their sessions. That was a few years back, but last year, a man named Mason Verger was arrested under suspicion of child molestation. Dr. Lecter was evaluating him for the court system. Mason Verger is very wealthy – he's the heir to a meatpacking fortune. His sister Margot later became a patient of Dr. Lecter's as well. But Mason's now in a long-term hospital on a ventilator – apparently he did a cocktail of drugs, cut off his face, and fed it to his dogs.” 

_“What?!”_ Alana screeched. “What the fuck, Will? Are you serious?” 

Will laughed humorlessly. “That's not even the half of it. There's security footage of a black Bentley, with Dr. Lecter's plates, at Verger's place the night it happened. Verger's employees aren't giving any information as to whether or not Dr. Lecter was actually there when Mason cut off his face. The footage of Dr. Lecter leaving is missing – some bullshit computer error. There's payoffs involved somehow.” 

“How do you know all this?”

“Freddie. She's been investigating Dr. Lecter, too, but she's got more resources than we do. She's got a network of contacts she can bribe and computers she can hack. We've got an FBI that doesn't care and a head of the BAU who's essentially become best friends with a serial killer.” 

“This is the information she wanted to give you?”

“Yes. She also wanted to compare notes, which we have done. We've come to the same conclusions. She wants to meet with me this Saturday. Would you be willing to come, too?” 

Alana agreed. They decided to meet Freddie at an innocuous and busy Starbucks just off a highway exit. Will and Alana arrived a bit before eleven in the morning, getting iced coffees to ward off the coming heat and sitting outside under an umbrella. “There she is,” Will said, nodding towards a black Rolls-Royce that was pulling into the parking lot. 

Freddie got out of her car and walked toward them. She wore dark jeans, a crisp white lace blouse, and flats, all designer-quality. Her hair was perfectly coiled. She looked surprised to see Alana. “Dr. Bloom?” she asked, pulling out a chair from their table and sitting down. 

“You can trust her. She knows everything,” Will said to Freddie. It seemed bizarre to Alana that Will was telling Freddie Lounds that she could trust _her,_ but her whole life had become bizarre since Will was arrested for five counts of murder. It was bizarre enough that Will and Freddie, who had once gazed across a table in the BAU office in deep animosity, were working together – quite amiably, it appeared – on a case. 

Freddie gave Alana a polite smile. It seemed genuine enough, to Alana's eyes. “Well, then, Dr. Bloom, welcome to our little fold. I have some things for you, Will, but we can't discuss them here. Would my car suffice?”

Will and Alana indicated that it would. After Freddie had gotten her own coffee, they all crossed the parking lot to the Rolls-Royce and got inside, Freddie in the driver's seat and Will and Alana in the back. The car smelled of leather and luxury and reminded Alana of her parents. 

“Dr. Bloom,” Freddie asked, “You would say you know Dr. Lecter well, wouldn't you?”

“I thought I did,” Alana said. “Now, I'm not so sure.” 

“He was your mentor at Johns Hopkins?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember any strange rumors about him or his practices while he was there?”

“Not really. He can be unorthodox in his methods, but I don't remember him hurting anyone or him doing anything that would put his license in jeopardy.” 

Freddie nodded. “Do you know anything about his career before he worked at Johns Hopkins?”

“Just the basics. He was an ER doctor at Misericordia, then he left and trained as a psychiatrist at Johns Hopkins.” 

“Do you know why he left Misericordia?”

Will spoke up. “He told me once he felt responsible for the death of a patient. I don't know if it's true or not. I would imagine an ER doctor would be used to losing patients, so I couldn't understand why he was so sensitive about losing one.” 

“Dr. Bloom, is that the same story you heard?”

“Yes. I thought it strange, too, but I chalked it up to burnout and perhaps some oversensitivity. I figured he wanted to get to know his patients on a more personal level. One can really only do that in private practice, and no physician gets to know his patients better than a psychiatrist.” 

Freddie nodded thoughtfully. “Dr. Lecter's last assistant disappeared a little over two months before he accepted Will as a patient. Her whereabouts are still unknown. Now, as you know, Dr. Bloom, a psychiatrist's assistant is usually in charge of scheduling appointments and working with insurance companies and may also have access to some patient records. He has not hired an assistant since his last assistant's disappearance and has become strangely averse to using computers in his practice. Why would that be?”

Alana thought for a few moments before answering. “Computers leave trails, of course. But they're also necessary for a modern practice – most patients are able to afford psychiatric care only with insurance funding. I also keep most of my patient records on computer files so that I can access them more easily and submit them to the courts through more secure channels than mail.”

“But yet Dr. Lecter's practice is still overwhelmingly grounded in paper. Has he always been averse to using computers?”

“Not particularly. I mean, he's no expert, but he would understand the necessity of computers to maintain a consistent and successful practice.” 

“Dr. Lecter's patients in his private practice, with the exception of Will and a handful of others, have overwhelmingly been affluent people who pay for their treatment with cash and credit cards, not needing or utilizing insurance funding. He's long had a reputation as the go-to psychiatrist for Baltimore's elite. He's evaluated a few patients for the court system since he does have a certification for forensic psychiatry, but most of his patients would be considered law-abiding citizens at the very least.” Alana nodded along – she knew all this. 

Freddie acknowledged her. “You already know this, of course, Dr. Bloom, since you've had a close relationship with Dr. Lecter for years. But did you know that several of his elderly patients have died and left him significant amounts of money in their estates?”

Alana paused for a moment – she felt an uncomfortable churning in her stomach. “That's extremely unusual,” was all she could think of to say. Alana thought of Hannibal's richly appointed home and office, his expensive custom-made suits, his Bentley – Hannibal always had the best of everything and was not at all afraid to show it. Psychiatrists could make quite a bit of money in private practice, but very few of the ones she knew drove Bentleys or had offices filled with antiques. “So you think he's been embezzling money?”

“Not embezzling, exactly,” Will said – he'd been quiet, listening to Freddie and Alana's conversation. “He wasn't stealing the money. The patients bequeathed it to him in their wills. But, perhaps, it was taking advantage of people who were very wealthy and very vulnerable.” 

“All this, in itself, is not illegal,” Freddie said. “It would not result in the loss of his license to practice medicine.”

Alana nodded. “But it's deeply unusual – and in the case of the money, unethical – behavior.” She paused, looking closely at Freddie. “How did you find all of this out?”

“There are quite a few people willing to talk about Dr. Lecter. He's never been the subject of a formal police investigation besides the perfunctory one Jack Crawford performed after Will's arrest, but he's certainly angered some people along the way – particularly the families of the patients who left him money in their wills. Often, that money had been promised to family members, only for the patient to change the will shortly before their death to include a significant inheritance for Dr. Lecter.” 

Alana was completely shocked. She sat for a few minutes, Will silent next to her, to take it all in. An idea – a horrible, disgusting idea – was forming in her brain and she was afraid to give voice to it. “Will,” she said, her voice sounding weak in her own ears, “you said that Hannibal has had patients disappear or die under mysterious circumstances. Is this what you meant?”

“In one way, yes.”

“In _one_ way?” 

“Alana, these patients were elderly and often sick. Autopsies were never performed on their bodies, and their deaths were never investigated because foul play was never suspected. We can't say for sure what happened to them. And you know full well that a fatal poisoning is almost always performed by someone close to the victim – a caretaker, family member, or spouse.”

“Unfortunately, with his elderly patients at least, we can't prove anything,” Freddie said. “I think these patients were emotionally manipulated into changing their wills to bequeath money to Dr. Lecter instead of their families. There's no evidence for foul play on his part, although the circumstances are suspicious.” She paused. “But there's more, and I think what Will told you will make more sense soon.”

Freddie reached into a bag that lay against the front passenger seat, removing an expandable file folder. She handed it to Will. “Will knows this already,” she said, “but Dr. Bloom, keep in mind that none of this will be admissible in court unless it's been officially subpoenaed by the FBI.”

Alana nodded. 

Freddie continued in her calm, even voice. “One of the Ripper's victims was once a patient at Misericordia ER. Dr. Lecter was the physician on record that night.” 

“He was the one found in his workshop, with the _Wound Man_ injuries,” Will said. “His murder was the one Miriam Lass, Jack's trainee, was investigating when she disappeared. She was interviewing doctors who had had contact with Ripper victims, since she believed the Ripper was a doctor.” 

Alana put up a hand – she was confused, and the churning in her stomach that had started was rapidly turning to nausea. “Stop, wait – are you saying that Hannibal is the Ripper?”

Both Freddie and Will looked at her. Their faces were open, honest – Alana thought back, quickly, to what Will had said a few days earlier: _She wanted to compare notes. We've come to the same conclusions._

Will swallowed hard before he spoke. “Yes, he is the Ripper, Alana. I've thought it for a while. It's been like...a fly buzzing at the back of my head. Things the judge said in court, things I've said and thought...I went back to the profile one afternoon, and it fit. The words were the same, even.” 

Alana recalled the Ripper's profile, one she'd helped develop: white male, 40-60 years, surgical expertise. Very familiar with the Baltimore and Virginia coastal areas, likely a local. Exotic somehow, possibly a foreign immigrant. Well-educated and likely to be high-income. Adaptable and meticulous. Knowledgable about forensics. Interested in the arts. A masquerader – he blended well, had an extraordinary ability to hide who and what he really was from everyone, since he was likely to have a high profile. 

_Hannibal Lecter,_ she thought. _You motherfucker. You fit perfectly._

Part of her mind screamed that it wasn't conclusive evidence, but it was like the final piece of a puzzle that she had been working on for a long time was finally put into place. Hannibal was the Ripper: that's why he'd framed Will, because he knew Will was going to catch him, he knew Will was the only one who could. 

Alana turned to Will. She felt weak, ill. “That's what you suspected, that night I told you how I thought Hannibal framed you. That's what you wouldn't tell me.” Her own voice sounded weak. “Oh my God, Will...” She gaped at him, open-mouthed, like a fish. She had to remind herself to breathe. 

Then anger surged in her – powerful and scary. _“He almost put you in prison for the rest of your life!”_ she yelled – screamed – at Will. _“He could have gotten you executed!”_ She didn't know why she was yelling at Will, but her fury at Hannibal had to go somewhere. 

Will was still calm. “That's what our...disagreement on Christmas morning was about. He had been trying, the whole time I was at Chilton's, to convince me that I had committed all the murders and that my belief that he framed me was a delusion. But I knew I was right, I knew I was innocent, and in that place it was one of the few things I had to hold on to. Both he and Chilton were trying to do to me what Chilton did to Gideon – trying to convince me that I didn't know who I was, that I was someone else other than myself.”

“Psychic driving,” Alana said. Bile was rising in her throat. 

“It wasn't working with me, though, even with the drugs they were shoving down my throat. Then Dr. Lecter came on Christmas morning and, I don't know, I just lost it. I felt terrible anyway and then to have him there, mocking me, made me feel worse. I told him that he was nothing but a liar, and I asked him if he intended to play his game until the end, if he was willing to watch me die to protect himself. I expected him to deflect the question, like he always did, but he didn't. He said yes, of course he was willing to watch me die, but letting the legal system kill me would leave my blood off his hands.” 

Alana was trembling.

“Then I asked him why he hadn't just killed me if I got too close, why go through the charade of framing me and putting me in prison, if my death was the goal? He said he didn't want to kill me, that seeing me imprisoned was much more interesting. He said I was like a rare bird that he could view in a gilded cage whenever he liked – an object for his pleasure.” 

It was too much. Alana felt as if she were crawling out of her own skin. “I need some air,” she said. Tears were welling up in her eyes. 

“Take your time, Dr. Bloom,” Freddie said patiently, even kindly. 

Alana exited the car and stood in the parking lot, watching people come in and out of the Starbucks, watching cars pull into and out of parking spaces. She began to laugh – she knew she was hysterical, she knew she should have better control over her emotions, but she'd just found out that her mentor and her teacher was (possibly, probably) a vicious, disgusting serial murderer in the parking lot of a fucking Starbucks. 

And then her mind flashed back to Will on that Christmas morning, and how he had cried on her shoulder, how he hadn't been able to hold in the agony any more, and her laughter turned to tears and then open sobs. She felt weak in the knees and sat down on the curb. Will came and sat next to her, placed an arm protectively around her, and let her cry. 

“I'm going to kill him, Will, I swear to God,” she said, grasping his hand in hers. 

“You're not going to do anything like that. You're going to stay far away from him, especially now.” 

“I trusted him. I gave you to him.” She looked at his face, looked into his deep sad eyes, and stroked his cheek. “He almost destroyed you. I'm so sorry.” Her mind flashed to the might-have-beens: the hole in the basement at Baltimore State Hospital where Will would have lived out his meager existence, eventually hanging himself or taking an overdose of squirreled-away pills, or a colorless concrete cell in a federal prison, the view outside a narrow window forever mocking him, or, most horribly, an anonymous Death Chamber where he would have died an innocent man. 

_A rare bird in a gilded cage. An object for his pleasure. Blood off his hands._

“I forgive you, Alana,” he said quietly, kissing her forehead. “You didn't know.” He stroked her hair and a surge of love, deep and powerful, rose within her heart. She turned her body slightly to embrace him, and they sat there silently for a long time, holding each other, the noise of the cars on the highway a dull swish in the background. 

“How are you so calm right now?” Alana said after a while. “How are you calm about all of this?”

“I have to be calm, or I'd go to Baltimore right now and shoot him dead. I'd finish what I began in Minnesota.” He paused. “But I'm not going back to prison for him. I did a year in hell because of him. I lost everything but you and my dogs. It's Jack's job to stop him now, not mine.” 

“Other people are going to die, Will. He won't stop. He can't.”

He leaned back a little and cradled her face in his hands. “As long as you don't die, I don't care.” A look of shame crossed his face. “I know that sounds callous, but --”

“I understand,” Alana whispered, because she felt the same. The psychiatrist part of her knew that their relationship, especially over the past few months, had become unhealthily intense, but she didn't care about that, either. They were not in a normal relationship. They were fighting a monster, and they needed each other to do it. 

An odd memory came to the surface of her mind: she was in church with her grandmother, the first Alana Bloom, the handsome woman whose trademark starfish necklace she now wore. It was the feast day of St. George, and the priest was telling the story to the silent crowd. Little Alana was itchy and warm in her lace Sunday dress, and she was looking at the light through the stained-glass windows. 

Then, the story began to hold her attention. Alana had always had a vivid imagination herself – nothing compared to Will's, but she'd grown up bookish and dreamy and clever, and a story like St. George's enthralled her. A dragon had come to dwell within a kingdom, in a place far away and a time long ago, and the townspeople and the king gave the dragon more and more sacrifices, both animal and human, to appease him, but he was always hungry, more and more hungry. When his appetite was not appeased, the dragon demanded the king's daughter. The townspeople, in fear, obeyed the dragon, and the king handed over his daughter to prevent an uprising.

The princess had been given to the dragon and he was about to eat her, when St. George rode by on his magnificent white horse. When he saw what was happening, he vowed to save the innocent maiden, calling upon God and performing the Sign of the Cross for aid. He fought the dragon for days, and the dragon wounded him grievously, breaking his lance and destroying his armor, but St. George was healed through God's grace, and finally slew the evil creature and saved both the princess and the land.

Alana remembered the story, remembered the warm church and the bright spring day she'd heard it, remembered the reassuring presence of her grandmother, years dead, next to her. Will was still stroking her face, his eyes soft and sad, always sad even when he seemed happy. “Are you ready to go back in?” he asked her. She had never loved him more than she did at this moment, when he held her so tenderly, when he so easily forgave her while she couldn't forgive herself. 

“Is there anything else I need to know?” she asked him. 

“No,” he said. 

“Then let's finish this,” she said. They rose together – she felt Will's hand, warm and reassuring, on the small of her back – and they went back into the Rolls-Royce to find out how they were going to slay _this_ dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of St. George (the patron saint of England, whose symbol is also the red cross) is beautifully recounted in Book 1 of Edmund Spenser's _The Faerie Queene_ , as well as various medieval sources.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Freddie was still sitting in the driver's seat, patiently sipping her coffee, when Alana reentered the car. Will entered directly after her, from the other side. Alana knew her face was flushed, and she suspected Freddie had heard, if not seen, her and Will's interaction in the parking lot. Alana took deep breaths to steady herself before asking, “So you both agree that Hannibal is both the copycat _and_ the Ripper?” 

Freddie nodded. “Yes. I suspected Dr. Lecter was the copycat based on my own investigation, but as I uncovered more, it became clear to me that if Dr. Lecter was the copycat, these could not be his first murders. The copycat murders were, for the most part, extremely sophisticated – nearly all of them have planted DNA evidence that points to other perpetrators, and the victims were killed in several different ways. That signifies that the copycat has a long history of killing and is comfortable experimenting with his methods. He's confident he won't get caught even if he changes his M.O. Georgia Madchen's murder also suggests that he knows how hyperbaric chambers work – something a doctor would know.”

“And something Will would not.” 

“Likely not, although I never discount the possibility that there's something Will doesn't know.” Alana saw a slight, odd smile cross over Freddie's face. 

“And we know – and Freddie knows – that the Chesapeake Ripper has long been thought to be a doctor,” Will said. “If we find a medical doctor, particularly someone with surgical expertise, who is committing sophisticated and brutal murders, it's worth wondering if he's the Ripper.”

“And Hannibal fits the profile,” Alana said. “Perfectly.” 

“I tried to talk myself out of thinking Lecter was the Ripper, Alana, I really did,” Will said, sounding almost apologetic. “I wanted to make sure my personal feelings weren't getting in the way.”

“But they're not,” Alana said. “I believe you're right, Will, as much as it disgusts me to admit it. I believe the profile is correct, and our suspect fits the profile. I'm not in denial any longer of what Hannibal's capable of doing. In fact, Cassie Boyle's murder would fit the profile of a Ripper murder, too.”

“The purposeful display of the body and the surgical trophies,” Freddie said. “Cassie Boyle's lungs were never recovered.” Freddie's gaze narrowed. “Why would he take her lungs?”

“I'm beyond looking for a motive in any of Lecter's murders,” Will said, anger and disdain evident in his voice. “He barely _has_ motive. He kills because he likes it, plain and simple. I'm more interested in why he chooses his victims. They're not random.” Will's gaze lowered – Alana recognized the signs that he was searching his exceptional memory, thinking of what something Hannibal might have said to him.

His gaze shifted up. “They were rude to him,” he said. “He takes their organs and abuses their bodies as a form of punishment. We talked about it once. I'd missed my session with him because I lost time, and he drove all the way to Quantico to find me.”

“Really?” Freddie asked. “That's a long way.”

“We were very close, he and I,” Will said. “Lecter said he considered me his friend more than his patient.” Alana noticed that Will had dropped Hannibal's title; he never had before, even after Hannibal had put him in Baltimore State Hospital for a year. _That's because Hannibal's not a doctor,_ Alana thought. _He's utterly violated his oath. He doesn't deserve the title._

“When he showed up, I had been working on the Ripper file,” Will continued. “I had pictures of the murder scenes all over my desk. He came and looked at the photos with me, and I asked him his opinion, as I often did. He was very insightful.” Will said the last with a note of irony in his voice. “I told him about my belief that the Ripper had disdain for his victims, that he thought of them as pests. His goal was to humiliate them. Lecter agreed with me.” Will leaned forward and started rubbing his forehead, the sign he was agitated. “I was so _close,_ so close then...and I couldn't see it. He was standing right next to me, bold as fucking brass, discussing his own murders with me, and I couldn't see it.”

“You were sick,” Alana said quietly. “You weren't thinking straight.” She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly. 

“So you're saying Dr. Lecter had contact with all of the victims before he killed them?” Freddie asked. 

“Small contact. Minimal contact. A blip on the radar. That's why they've never been traced to him, except for his former patient, the one Miriam Lass found by chance. They're not people he knew well, they were people he encountered who were undignified in some way. He tracked them down afterward and then killed them. He took their organs as trophies because he felt they didn't deserve them.” 

“That is _insane,_ ” Freddie said. 

“Is it any more or less insane than picking up prostitutes or hitchhikers on a highway? Any more or less insane than asking your daughter to be friendly with the young women you're about to kill so you won't kill her instead?” Will shook his head. “He would consider it all very civilized, what he does. He cleanses the world of the rude. He is their judge, jury, and executioner, and there is an endless supply of potential victims.” 

All three of them sat silently in the luxurious interior of Freddie's car, absorbing what Will had said. Alana had no doubt any more that he was correct in every way about Hannibal. She recalled several remarks Hannibal had made during the course of her friendship with him about disliking rudeness, about the importance of being civilized. _All the while,_ she thought, _he was doing the most uncivilized and inhuman things of all._

“What a shithead,” Freddie muttered incredulously. “Oh, I'm sorry, how _rude_ of me.” And that broke their shock – Alana started to laugh in spite of herself, and even Will laughed, too, ironically. “You know, Will,” she continued, “I've never told you this, but I've had an encounter with him before, just him and I.” 

“What happened?” Alana asked.

“I was behaving very badly – I justified it at the time, of course – but I was in the waiting room of his office, secretly recording your session with him.” She paused. “I'm sorry. I hated you at the time and so I thought nothing of violating your privacy for my own gains. I scheduled myself for the session directly after yours, under an alias. Somehow Dr. Lecter was able to see right through me, and took my recording device. He told me I had been rude, but let me go.”

Alana looked at Will, who had been patiently listening to Freddie's story. She did appear truly remorseful, and Will did not respond to her confession with any kind of anger. “Then I would say you're lucky to be alive,” he said. “He left you alive because he's a fan of your writing. You're someone who recognizes and shares his work. That's very important to him. He enjoys the attention Tattlecrime gives him.” 

They all went silent for a minute or two. The atmosphere was heavy. Alana felt drained from the weight of the truth and the depth of her emotional turmoil. She decided to break the silence. “So now that we know all this, what are we going to do?” 

Freddie spoke next. “As of now, we're not going to be able to get Lecter on the copycat murders – that trail's too clean. Jack Crawford's investigated it and he's not going to investigate it again, not for Will's sake, anyway. What we _can_ get him on are the Ripper murders. If we can prove that Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, we can also imply that he is the copycat and that he framed Will for those crimes because Will was close to catching him. That's the only way we'll prevent Will from being arrested again for those murders.” 

“How do we do that?”

“That's where we need your help, Dr. Bloom. Will has been completely discredited and I'm...well, I'm me. Hard to take seriously. But you're not. You're still credible in the eyes of the FBI.”

“I don't think I have all that much credibility left, either,” Alana said. 

“But you've got some, and some's all we need.” Freddie nodded towards Will. “Will, I got most of what you asked for. It's in that file.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He opened it, and Alana saw that it contained papers and DVDs. “What are these?” Alana asked.

“That is the evidence Will is innocent,” Freddie said. “To be delivered to Jack Crawford at Quantico.”

“By me,” Alana said. 

Freddie nodded. “Hospital security footage confirms that Will never left the floor his room was on the afternoon Georgia Madchen died. As you recall, Georgia was in the burn unit, on a different floor. Dr. Lecter visited Will that afternoon around noon. After his visit, Will visited the nurses' station, talked to them for a few minutes, and then returned to his room. He never left the floor again until the FBI was on scene investigating the murder. The same for the night Marissa Schurr was killed – Will used his keycard that night to enter his hotel room, and there's no record of any usage to reenter the room at all that night and morning. If Will had left his room to abduct and kill Marissa, there would be a record of a reentry, unless he levitated out of his room somehow.” 

Will added, “Freddie did find evidence of Lecter reentering his room early that morning, though, and he had the keys to the rental car we were using in Minnesota.” 

Alana put her head into her hands. “Jack was supposed to have _investigated this!_ ” she said, her voice rising in anger. “Why put Will in Baltimore State Hospital for a year when this case was this full of holes?” 

“We've received most of this information from...not exactly legal means, Dr. Bloom. It wouldn't be accepted in court.” 

“But it's forensic evidence. If the FBI had it, it would be admissible in court.” 

“The FBI didn't have it,” Will said. “Jack never investigated my claims, not seriously. If he did, he would have found everything in this file right now, and probably more. But Jack believed I was guilty, and when Jack believes he's right about something, he closes his mind off to other possibilities – it's a major flaw of his as an investigator. He never even questioned me after I was moved to Baltimore because he believed I was an unreliable witness and my memory couldn't be trusted. He investigated Lecter, who had more than enough time to falsify records and cover his trail.” 

“And spend a year cozying up to the head of the BAU,” Freddie added. 

“Lecter is killing under Jack's nose,” Will said. “And these killings are becoming more obvious – he's started attacking his patients again. He didn't do that for a while, not after Miriam Lass came calling. But, as his killings become more obvious, he's also becoming more vulnerable. He'll slip up soon and kill someone close to him again, and that's when the investigation will begin.” 

“But why is he being so careless now?” Alana asked. “He must have been killing for years and was never even under suspicion for the Ripper murders because none of those victims could be definitively traced to him. Miriam Lass's disappearance was never traced to him. What's changed?” 

Freddie said, “He discredited Will and is in deep with the FBI. It's a simple case of keeping your enemies closer. He's probably feeding Jack false information to keep him off the trail.”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Will said quietly. “He believes his armor is flawless, that his disguise is perfect. But it's not. It's just a matter of time.”

“You're sure about this, Will?” Alana asked. “What if the new evidence doesn't make any difference to Jack?” 

Freddie spoke up. “Will has given me permission to start leaking this information on Tattlecrime. I'm starting with the disappearance of Benjamin Raspail. I won't connect Lecter to anything explicitly – for a while. But it's going to be embarrassing to the FBI if a crime blogger is doing a better job tracking down the Chesapeake Ripper than they are.” 

“Lecter's not the only one capable of schemes,” Will said, looking directly at Alana, echoing words she had said months and months ago. He turned his head towards Freddie. “Thank you, again,” he said to her. “I'll keep in touch.”

“Good luck, Will,” she said. 

“I'll meet you outside?” Will asked Alana. “I have to use the restroom before we leave.”

“Okay,” Alana agreed, and he exited the car. 

She and Freddie were alone. Alana asked the question that had been on her mind for weeks. “Why are you doing this? I thought you hated Will.”

“I did dislike Will but, I admit, his testimony in court was moving. At the end, I no longer saw someone who was capable of serial murder. I saw a man breaking under the weight of his own innocence.” She paused. “And I admit, my motives were not entirely altruistic. I was intrigued by his story. If he wasn't the copycat, who was? Who was the man he refused to name, the man clever enough to set him up to take the fall for five murders? I wanted to solve that mystery for my own curiosity.” 

“And so you have.”

Freddie nodded. “And along the way, I found more than I bargained for. I've been on the trail of the Chesapeake Ripper for most of my career, as have you, as has Jack and Will. We're all invested in this case, in one way or another. We want to see it solved. Will Graham is that key. He always has been.”

Alana said, “But Hannibal's weakness – his unwillingness to kill Will – made him a dangerous enemy instead.”

“Will is not as helpless as he seems. He's very driven to have Lecter put away, but this time, he has the wisdom not to try to do it by himself.” 

Alana nodded. “If he kills Hannibal, he'll be indicted for murder because, in Jack's eyes, Hannibal is still an innocent man.” 

“Jack needs a nudge,” Freddie said. “He's gotten very close to Dr. Lecter over the past year and a half, and Dr. Lecter has blinded him to the truth, taken advantage of Jack's wife's illness and his emotional turmoil to lead him off the trail. I don't have to lecture you on how to do it, Dr. Bloom, but we need to get Jack back on the trail of the Chesapeake Ripper again.” 

“I'll do my best,” Alana said. “But you're putting yourself in danger, too. Even if Hannibal isn't able to connect your leaks with Will, he'll still be angry there's leaks at all.”

“I can take care of myself,” Freddie said, and discreetly pulled out the handle of a pistol from her Chanel purse.

 

September came, and with it, Alana's final trip to Quantico. Will was almost sick with worry the day of it; she even ordered him to take an extra dose of his sedative. He desperately wanted to accompany her, but he knew there was no way he would even be let onto the grounds. Alana hated seeing him so distressed, so she came up with a plan. “I'll call you on your cell the second I get past security and keep the phone on in my purse. You'll hear every move I make and every word I say. If anything happens, you can call the police from the home phone.” 

“Okay,” Will had said, and nodded. “Please be careful.”

“I will. I promise.” She kissed him deeply and they embraced for a long time before she climbed into her car and made the trip to Quantico. 

She got past the security at the gate with her credentials and, as promised, she called Will. “I'm in,” she said. “Good,” he replied. When she parked, she quickly stacked the items in her purse as high as she could, and then laid her cell phone on top. She kept talking to Will as she walked across the parking lot and entered the building, getting her usual visitor's pass. The first part of her trip would be dull – she had to report to the human resources office to fill out the paperwork for her formal leave of absence. She had estimated that part would take about half an hour, and she had scheduled a meeting with Jack Crawford at 11:30 to deliver the evidence from Freddie Lounds. That was the risky and dangerous part of the trip, as she would be in the BAU offices, and Hannibal could potentially be there. Beverly had told her he was often in the BAU now, consulting with Jack on various cases. 

After she filled out her paperwork at human resources and had walked across campus to the BAU offices, she checked her phone again to make sure she was still connected to Will. She was. “On my way up to Jack's office,” she muttered, knowing Will could hear her. She heard him reply, “Okay.” 

She took the elevator up, and then rechecked her phone to make sure she hadn't lost Will's signal in the elevator. “Are you still there, baby?” she muttered, as she pretended to be rifling through her purse.

“I'm still here,” he answered. 

She gripped the file folder with the paper records and DVDs in her hand, reassured by its weight, both literally and figuratively. She and Will had copied all of its contents and placed them in a safety deposit box at the bank, and Freddie also had her own copies, just in case anything happened to any of them. The contents of the folder she carried were going to keep Will out of prison or Baltimore State Hospital forever, and for her and Will, they were more valuable than bricks of gold. 

Beverly came out of a doorway and walked towards her. “I heard you had a meeting with Jack,” she said. “What's it about?”

“Is Dr. Lecter here, by any chance?” she asked Beverly in an undertone.

“I haven't seen him today,” Beverly said. Alana wanted to sigh in relief, but she couldn't count herself home free just yet. Hannibal was too dangerous to underestimate.

“I have evidence of Will's innocence,” she said, nodding downward to the accordion file in her hands. “Forensic evidence.”

“The real shit?” Beverly said, raising her eyebrows.

“The real shit,” she said. “We've done our own investigation. I'm delivering what we found to Jack.” 

Beverly nodded. “Good.”

“I can't talk more right now. I don't want to be late.”

“I'll walk with you.” She and Beverly walked together to Jack's office. Alana checked her watch – she was right on time. When they were within a few feet of the office, Beverly squeezed her arm and kept walking, as if nothing had happened. 

Jack's office door was open and he was seated at his desk. Alana noticed how much thinner he'd gotten, even more so in the past few months, and how tired and old he looked. An absurd image came to her mind: Hannibal stood behind him, sipping Jack's life and energy out of a straw at the crown of his head. Will had looked thin, tired, and old when he'd come out of a year in a cage at Baltimore State Hospital, and only now was starting to look more like his former self, although the experience had done permanent damage to both his physical body and his psyche. Alana had heard the term _emotional vampire,_ but never before had she understood what it meant. Hannibal had sucked the life out of both of them. 

Jack stood and offered her his hand. “Alana,” he said.

“Jack,” she greeted him in return, shaking his hand. Alana seated herself. The last time she'd been in this office was when Jack had told her Will had been arrested under suspicion of murdering Abigail Hobbs. She had screamed at him, blamed him, and then realized she had had a role in what had happened to Will as well. 

“What can I do for you?” Jack asked her, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers together.

“I'm not really here for myself,” she said, not exactly sure where to begin. She corrected herself. “That's not quite true – I _am_ here for myself. I'm also here for someone else.”

“For Will,” Jack said quietly. 

“Will says you never questioned him after he was released from the hospital in Minnesota. He says you've actually never formally interrogated him.”

“He's unstable, Alana. You know that.” 

“I don't agree. He _was_ unstable, but he's not unstable any longer.” 

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “He's been my patient alone for close to five months now. We've been having weekly sessions together for a year and a half. His version of events has remained consistent throughout.” 

“And what is your professional judgement on his version of events?” Jack asked. Both of them were talking quietly, neither one of them was yelling, but Alana felt the tension between them. It was almost palpable. 

“He's telling the truth. And not just the truth as he understands it – the actual truth.” 

Jack leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I've investigated Dr. Lecter thoroughly. There is no proof that he had any intention other than to help Will. He's got detailed records and recordings of their sessions and of the time they spent together.” 

“Have you investigated Will's records?” Alana asked. “Have you investigated his side of the story?” 

“Will is an unreliable witness.”

“You don't always need interviews with a suspect to conduct an investigation. Though, they help.” She opened the accordion file and laid one of the folders on his desk. “These are Will's phone records for the entire period of the copycat murders. You can determine his locations during the weekend of the Boyle murder by his cell phone pings – you'll see that Will was at home in Virginia running errands the weekend that Cassie Boyle disappeared. He was using his internet service. You can also look at your incoming calls and have them checked against case records. Think back to how Will was acting on those cases. When did you notice a marked decline in his cognition, erratic behavior? Does it gel with the timeline Hannibal presented in his deposition?”

Another folder. “Here's a police report from January 16, right in the middle of the period of the copycat murders. Fairfax County PD found Will sleepwalking in the middle of the highway and took him home. Sleepwalking is a possible symptom of dissociation, epileptic seizures, or fever, all three of which Will had when he had encephalitis. In his deposition, Hannibal stated that Will did not show evidence of dementia until February. This police report proves otherwise.” 

“Would he have told Dr. Lecter about this?” Jack asked, his voice maddeningly even. 

“Would _you_ have told your psychiatrist about it, especially if you'd never had a history of sleepwalking?” She paused. “Yes, he did inform Hannibal that he was sleepwalking. Hannibal did nothing about it.” 

She placed a DVD on the desk. “Hospital security camera footage from Will's floor the afternoon Georgia Madchen died. Hannibal came for a visit around noon and stayed until one. Will left his room about 1:30 pm, talked to the nurses at the nurses' station for about fifteen minutes, and then went back to his room. There's no evidence he left the room again until you arrived and called him to the crime scene. He was still weak, running a fever of over a hundred degrees, and on intravenous fluids the afternoon of the murder. The nurses were watching him closely and they never reported him leaving the floor, either. I know this because I spoke to them, as Will's doctor.” 

She placed a final folder on the table. “Here's the keycard entry records from the hotel in Minnesota that we all stayed in during the time of Marissa Schurr's murder. Will's entry and exit records indicate that he entered his room at 9:18 that night and did not leave it, since there is no reentry record. Unless he climbed out a window – unlikely considering those windows didn't open – it would have been impossible for him to have left the room to kill Marissa Schurr and return to clean himself up and change his clothes before we left for Garrett Jacob Hobbs's cabin in the morning. There are, however, multiple entry records for the room Hannibal was staying in: he originally entered the room at 8:32 that evening, and then there is another reentry at 4:39 the next morning.” 

“That means very little, Alana. People enter and exit hotel rooms for many reasons.” 

“Last one,” she said, placing another DVD on top of the first one. “This is footage from the surveillance cameras at the hotel. We rented a white BMW SUV in Minnesota. Only Hannibal had the keys to it, since the records for the rental were in his name. At 9:13 that evening, you can see that SUV exiting the parking lot of the hotel. It returns at 4:35 that morning. Why was that SUV out all night, and who was driving it?” 

“What are you expecting me to do with this, Alana?” He looked unimpressed. _I just vindicated Will in front of your eyes, you arrogant ass,_ she thought. 

When she responded, she fought to keep her voice even and calm. “I am asking you to be an investigator, Jack. I am asking you to thoroughly investigate _both_ sides of the story.” 

“I know you're attached to Will --” 

“Yes, I am attached to him. He's innocent, and I'm not the only person who believes he is. Poll your own department, for starters. Sometimes people accused of crimes are actually innocent. Sometimes unbelievable stories are true. And sometimes, Jack, you're wrong.” 

She sat back in her chair. “I'm leaving Quantico for a while to focus on my work at Georgetown. I'm up for tenure review in the spring and I need to perform research to keep my job. I am asking you, in return for all that I've done for you and as a token of our friendship, to investigate this trail. There are holes in this case that need answers, answers that only the FBI can legitimately provide.” 

She was silent for about a minute, gauging Jack's reaction. He looked at the file folders and DVDs on his desk, and then back up at her. She never broke eye contact with his face. Slowly, achingly slowly, he sat back in his chair and put a hand over his mouth, rubbing his bottom lip. 

“Will is still living with me,” she said, finally, after he said nothing. “He hasn't run away. He refuses to even leave the region. He just wants the truth to come out.” She rose. “Thank you for your time, Jack. Both Will and I appreciate it.” She turned away and walked out of his office, her and Will's best hopes, their future, laying in file folders and crystal cases on Jack's desk. 

She walked silently to the elevator, and, checking her signal again once she was out of the elevator, spoke to Will. “You were magnificent,” she heard him say.

“I can only hope it was enough,” she muttered, again pretending to rifle through her purse. 

“If it's not, we're ready,” he responded. “Now get the hell out of there.”

“I am.” She walked across campus, confident that Will was still with her, and turned in her visitor's badge at the front desk. She walked through the parking lot cautiously, her keys in her hand. When she reached her car, she checked the trunk and backseat for an interloper, then got in and locked the doors. She took the phone out of her purse and told Will, “I'm in my car and on the way out of here.” 

“I love you,” Will said.

“I love you, too. I'll be home in a little while.”

“Watch your ass on the way home.”

“I will. I promise.” She started the car, and didn't hang up with Will until she was sure she wasn't being followed. While she drove home, she began to think again of an idea she'd been weighing since Will had told her to stay away from Hannibal, and which now weighed even more heavily on her mind since she'd learned Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Alana had grown up knowing the deep woods of Virginia. She had learned to shoot with her father and brothers, but she'd never had a taste for it – she'd loved books more, and the idea of hurting animals upset her. Eventually, she hadn't been forced to go, but she wondered if she still had the skill she'd once had. Her father had, jokingly, called her Annie Oakley. “Anything you do, Lana,” he'd said, “you do perfectly.” 

She called Will and, after assuring him that she was sure she wasn't followed, informed him of her plans. He approved. She stopped at a gun store and applied for a concealed carry license, the image of Freddie flashing her gun and her words, _I can take care of myself,_ strong in her mind. 

Alana _would_ take care of herself, and she'd take care of Will, too, if necessary, if the monster came calling. She refused to be helpless any longer.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Will was pleased when Alana's application for a concealed carry license was approved, but he was hesitant to help her practice. “I'm not sure if it's a good idea for someone in my...circumstances to be seen handling guns,” he said. “Anyway, I'm not a very good shot. I know someone better.”

And so that was how Will, Alana, and Beverly ended up at the gun shop and shooting range that Saturday. Alana was scheduled to take her gun safety and concealed carry courses that day, and then she and Beverly would go gun shopping. It would take a few more days for Alana's background check to be completed before she could begin to legally carry the gun, but Beverly had offered to let her practice at the range with one of her guns. 

All three of them went to the handgun counter, where a variety of pistols were laid out like jewelry. Alana didn't know where to begin, but Beverly had told her that she'd had a model in mind. “We'll see a Ruger SR9,” she told the dealer. 

The dealer pulled out a model, showed off the features and the safety, then handed it to Alana. She felt its weight in her hands. It was surprisingly light. “This is one of the most popular models for concealed carry,” the dealer said. After examining it, she handed it to Will, who tested its weight in his hands as well. “It's light,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Thin. It'll be easy to handle.” 

“I figured it would be a good choice for Alana,” Beverly said. 

Alana felt completely out of her element – she knew next to nothing about guns, so she had to trust Beverly and Will. “What did you carry?” she asked Will, in an undertone. 

“Standard issue is a SIG Sauer,” he said. “It's heavier and larger than this one. It's not meant to be concealed.” 

“But you think this one will be good?”

He nodded. “It's the same type of gun. Anything happens, just fire into his chest until he drops. The clip holds ten rounds. That's more than enough to take a man down if you're a decent shot.” Alana's mind quickly flashed to the pictures she'd seen of Garrett Jacob Hobbs's corpse. Will had used the entire clip on him. Some of the agents had whispered it was overkill, playing into rumors of Will's instability. _They don't know shit,_ Alana thought. Hobbs had murdered his wife and cut his daughter's throat; Will had shot him until he dropped because he'd had to, because Hobbs would have gone after Will next. She'd do exactly what Will did if Hannibal tried to touch either of them, consequences be damned. 

Alana looked at Beverly, who nodded. “You both PD?” the dealer asked. He must have been listening to her conversation with Will.

“She's current --” Will said, nodding towards Beverly, “and I'm former.” 

“Former? What happened?”

Will shrugged. “I'm working privately now.” Alana hoped the dealer wouldn't push for more information – the last thing that the FBI needed to know was that Will had access to a firearm again – but, luckily, he didn't. Alana paid for her gun and it was set aside for her until her background check was completed. 

After they were done with the purchase, she and Beverly went into the range. Beverly coached her on her stance – Alana had only ever fired rifles before, not a pistol – and she practiced for a few hours, trying to commit what Beverly was teaching her to muscle memory. Beverly's SIG Sauer was heavier than the Ruger Alana had purchased, and so Beverly coached her accordingly. “This is seriously your first time with a pistol?” Beverly asked when she examined Alana's targets.

“I had a talent for shooting when I was a kid,” she said. 

“A sharp eye,” Beverly said, nodding approvingly. “I hope you'll never have to use it.” 

“You know, you've never asked me why I'm buying a gun,” Alana said, “or why I want to learn to shoot.”

“Everyone's got their reasons,” Beverly said, shrugging. “And women have more than most.” 

Alana smiled at that. “I heard from Will that you're a good shot yourself,” she said. “An award-winner at the Academy.”

“And yet I spend most of my time as a lab rat,” Beverly said. “I prefer it. The shooting's just in case, you know?” 

Alana nodded. “He told me about the woman you shot,” she said. “You might have saved his life.” 

Beverly nodded. “The bitch was using a child as a human shield, and then telling him to shoot Will. Will had his hands up and was trying to talk him out of it. He would never have shot the kid.”

“I'm glad you were there,” Alana said.

“I'm glad I was too. Also, it was kind of fun shooting her, to be honest. I got her from inside a tree. She never knew what hit her. She was too busy being completely insane.” It was dark humor, very Beverly, and Alana laughed. Truth be told, she was having a good time with Beverly, and she was happy that Will had asked her to be her teacher. 

 

Alana's background check was completed a few days later, and she was able to start carrying her Ruger. It wasn't technically legal for her to carry her gun at work since guns were banned on campus, but she had decided to take the risk in light of the danger Hannibal posed to her. She kept it concealed in her teaching bag, and then put it in her purse before she left campus. Beverly had been wise with her recommendation – the Ruger was light and thin enough so that she could carry it without anyone knowing she had it, yet would have enough power to stop Hannibal if he chose to attack her. 

Carrying the gun gave her confidence enough to worry about Will, who was often home alone and defenseless save for the set of knives in the kitchen. Will didn't much entertain the notion that Hannibal might come after him – “He's had plenty of opportunities to kill me before, and he's never used them,” he'd said – but Alana felt Will might be in more danger than he realized. She knew all he cared about was her safety and that his own didn't matter to him, but that didn't stop her from worrying about him in return. 

He spent some time reexamining the police reports about the deaths of Franklyn Froidveaux and Tobias Budge, both of which had occurred in Hannibal's office. “Froidveaux died first, of a broken neck,” Will told her. “Lecter's story was that Budge barged into the office, killed Froidveaux, and then attacked him. Lecter plead self-defense, and it looked a lot like it – Budge got a few licks in, before Lecter killed him. The question is, why would Budge attack Lecter?” 

“Hannibal never speculated on a motive?” she asked. 

Will shook his head. “He said Budge came to kill Froidveaux, and then went after him to eliminate him as a witness. But Budge was a serial killer; he used his victims' intestines as instrument strings. His last murder was uncharacteristically elaborate – a performance for someone he admired, another killer. He wanted to become an artist of murder, just like --” 

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Alana said. 

Will nodded. “Budge knew, or suspected, that Lecter was the Ripper. And it was Lecter that reported to me that Froidveaux told him he suspected his friend was the one who murdered the trombone player. That's how I ended up at Budge's.” Alana knew that Budge had murdered two Baltimore police officers before attacking Will and then escaping to Hannibal's office. 

“But who killed the patient?” she asked. “Was it Hannibal or Budge?” 

Will sighed. “We can't prove Lecter was lying about Budge killing Froidveaux. Budge might actually have killed him.” 

“But it's suspicious,” Alana said.

“Definitely. Two men dead in Lecter's office, Verger attacked, and then another one of Lecter's patients disappears this year. Three of Lecter's patients either dead, missing, or nearly dead in a period of two years.” 

Alana laughed ironically. “And another one in a mental institution for a year on suspicion of serial murder. He always used to say that psychotherapy never hurt anyone.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Unless you're one of Lecter's patients. Then it can be deadly.” 

Still tracing the trail, Will called Freddie to ask her if she could somehow get him an interview with Mason Verger. He had her on speaker so that Alana could hear the conversation, too. “Getting an interview with Mason Verger will be difficult,” Freddie said. “Not only because of his condition, but because of his security.” 

Will told her, “Make sure he finds out I want to know about the night of his attack. Don't mention anything about Lecter. He'll talk to me.” 

“You sound very confident,” Freddie said. 

“I'll bet he knows exactly who I am, and he'll want to talk to me because he knows I'll believe him. I know what it's like for people not to believe you when you're telling the truth.” Alana felt a pang of guilt when he said this, although the logical part of her knew he hadn't meant to offend her. 

“I'll do my best,” Freddie said. “That's all I ask for,” Will replied. They said goodbye and ended the call. Alana, who was preparing dinner that night since it was her day off, took a glance back at Will whenever she could. He was sitting at the kitchen counter, staring off into space, deep in thought. 

Alana snapped him back into reality. “What are you trying to find out by talking to Verger?” she asked. 

“I want to know why Lecter attacked him in the way he did. It was not at all typical of a Ripper murder. I don't even think the attack was meant to kill him. If Lecter wanted him dead, he would have been dead.” 

“Do you think it may have been personal? Verger was an accused child molester.” 

Will shook his head. “Lecter's _not_ a vigilante – whatever reason he had to attack Verger had little, if nothing to do with his criminal charges. He's done psychological evaluations on accused criminals for years.” Will rubbed his lip. “We need to look into those patients. We need to know where they are and what, if anything, Lecter did to them.” 

Alana said, “If Hannibal did psychiatric evaluations for them, those would be available through the court system as public record, unless they were juveniles.” 

“Can you access those records?” 

“I can try.” 

Alana spent a few days in various court databases, searching for the cases where Hannibal Lecter had served as a forensic psychiatrist or a consultant. There was Will's case, of course, but there were a little over twenty others – Hannibal didn't serve as a forensic psychiatrist very often because he was so busy with his own clients, but he still served, on occasion. Alana had a list of names when she was done, and asked Freddie Lounds to use her contacts in local police departments to see where these patients were currently located. 

Alana and Will did what they could with the public records, and what they found was shocking: nearly two-thirds of the patients had ended up on involuntary psychiatric holds just a few weeks or months after they had been evaluated by Hannibal. The records didn't indicate why they had been hospitalized, but Alana knew the reason why anyone would be placed on an involuntary hold – danger to self or others. 

“Honestly, I'm not all that surprised,” Will said. “He basically rubber-stamped me for Jack after I killed Hobbs. I even tried to get him to reconsider it and he refused.” 

Alana glanced at him over the edge of her laptop screen. “So this suggests that he rubber-stamped these patients too, saying they were sane and safe to walk the streets to await trial, when they obviously weren't because they ended up back in custody again quickly.”

“So,” Will replied, “Either he's the shittiest psychiatrist alive – which he's _not,_ out of all his issues you can't say that he couldn't see these people needed help – or he did it on purpose.” 

Alana shook her head. “I mean, I don't even know why I'm shocked. He's a serial killer. But what kind of games was he playing with these people?” 

What Freddie eventually found shocked and saddened Alana even more. She explained it all on another call: “So, the word is that all of these patients, if they were on psychiatric medications, had had them discontinued by Lecter. That's why they ended up in custody again – they became violent because they didn't have their medications to control their illnesses. Some of them committed crimes.” 

“Any murders?” Will asked.

“A few,” Freddie said. 

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Alana shrieked, slamming her fist down on the countertop. 

“And get this – Dr. Lecter has a psychiatrist of his own. Bedelia du Maurier, another pretty well-known and wealthy psychiatrist to Baltimore's elite.”

“Yes, I've met her,” Alana said. “She retired after a patient attacked her. It was pretty brutal – he tried to strangle her.”

“Guess who referred that patient to her?”

Alana was so distraught that Will hung up with Freddie temporarily to talk to her. 

“Why am I shocked?” she asked him. “I don't even know why. He's fucking deranged. It just keeps getting worse.” She started pacing, the anger that was balled in her chest building up into a fire. “Jack had to know this. This is all in public and police records. If he investigated Hannibal, he would have found this. He would have _known._ ” 

“He's deep in denial, Alana. And don't underestimate Lecter's ability to talk himself out of a corner and sound perfectly believable – he's a sociopath, he can tell a lie with absolutely no remorse. Even if he lied his way though a polygraph, he'd probably pass.” 

“His license to practice medicine needs to be revoked.”

“It'll be revoked once he's arrested for murder.”

“And when is _that_ going to happen?” she snapped impatiently, before calming herself. “Sorry. I know you have nothing to do with that. I'm just upset.” 

“We've done what we can. Going after Lecter ourselves, at this point, will get us both thrown in jail.” He paused. “Well, maybe _you'll_ end up in jail – I'll end up back at Baltimore State Hospital, because I'm a nutcase who's manipulated you into catching my crazy.” 

Alana kept pacing, her hands on her hips. “How many people do you think he's killed?” she asked, turned away from Will so she couldn't see his face.

“The Chesapeake Ripper's credited with nine, if you count Miriam Lass. There are other suspected murders in the FBI files that I connected to him. I don't know if those have been included in the official total since I've been discredited.” 

“And he's got the five copycat murders,” Alana said.

“If we can get him on those,” Will said. 

“ _We_ know he did them,” Alana countered. “So he's killed at least fourteen people.”

“He's killed more than fourteen, Alana. Way more.” 

She turned to him. Nausea was rising in her throat. “How many do you think he's killed?” 

Will was silent for a while, as if he was afraid to tell her. He took a deep breath before he finally spoke. “If he's been killing since he was young, which is likely given his skill, his victims could number close to a hundred.” 

“So we're talking H. H. Holmes levels of victims.” 

“Possibly, although I don't think it's nearly that many. He doesn't have a murder castle.” 

For some reason, this made Alana laugh darkly. “He could have built one with all the money he stole from old people.”

“I should ask Freddie to investigate.” He started laughing, too. It was the only way to ease the horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of H. H. Holmes, who was also a doctor and one of the most prolific serial killers in United States history, is told in the excellent _The Devil in the White City_ , by Erik Larsen, as well as several other books.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

September was passing; Alana's birthday was less than two weeks away. The weather was often rainy, but on the clear nights, Alana and Will had dinner out in the yard, as was their custom. 

She still held her twice-weekly therapy sessions with Will and still submitted reports to the court, as she had been ordered to do as a condition of his release. He wasn't going to go back to Chilton's because of her negligence. He had been very focused – Alana didn't want to use the word _obsessed,_ but it was close to what he was – on the investigation since they had been collaborating with Freddie, and that focus had provided him a surprising amount of emotional stability, but Alana knew there were still things that haunted him, things that had nothing to do with Hannibal, that she wanted him to address. 

It was a Thursday and Will had made dinner because Alana had worked. The weather was clear, so they decided to have dinner outside and let the dogs play in the yard. There was a slight chill in the evening air, but Will built a fire in the firepit, and before long Alana felt warm and content. She put her feet in his lap and he rubbed them. “You know, I love you very much,” she said, sighing as he rubbed his knuckle into the ball of one of her feet. 

He chuckled. “You shouldn't wear heels so much if they hurt your feet.” 

“They're pretty. And they give me more authority. Young professional women aren't taken seriously unless they wear heels.” 

“What study are you citing, Dr. Bloom?”

“My own study. Of life.” He laughed again. 

Alana relaxed for a while, letting him rub her feet, not wanting to break the spell but knowing she had to. “You're due for another fifty minutes,” she said. 

He was silent for a few moments. “Can I have another Strongbow, at least?” he finally asked. 

“Yes. I will neglect to mention that in my records.” 

He went back inside and came out with the can, then sat down, popped the top, and took a few sips. “I have to push you tonight, Will,” she said. “I think you're ready.” 

“Ready for what?”

“To talk about your father.” She paused, letting her words sink in. Will wouldn't look at her; he stared out into the yard. “We've been doing this for nearly six months now, and every time I've tried to broach this subject with you, you've avoided it. And I let you avoid it because I wanted you to have some more traction, some more strength. But I know that there's a reason why it's extremely painful for you to talk about him, and I want to know what it is.” 

He was still silent. “It's time to do the hard work now,” she said. 

He took a few more sips of his drink, then set it aside next to his chair. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked. He still wasn't looking at her, but he was willing to do what she was asking, and that was a promising start. 

“Begin at the beginning. What happened to your mother?” 

He sighed, then finally turned his head toward her. “My mom left when I was very young – I don't remember her at all. My dad always said she didn't want to be a mother. I think she might have had some kind of mental illness, but I'm not sure. All I know is that he wanted to keep me, and she let him.”

“Do you know if she's ever looked for you? Has she tried to contact you?”

“Not that I know of. I don't even know if she's alive. I used to want to search for her sometimes in the databases, but I was afraid of what I would find.” 

Alana nodded. “That's understandable. Tell me about your dad.” 

“He raised me alone. His mother was dead and he didn't speak to his father, so I never knew my grandparents, either. We moved around a lot – I would attend school if we stayed in one place long enough, but sometimes I would work as my dad's apprentice. He was a mechanic and taught me how to fix all kinds of engines. He was best at boat engines, though, so we spent a lot of time in boatyards all up the Mississippi River.” 

“Where did you live when you moved?”

“Trailers, motel rooms. My dad's van, when things were really tight. If we stayed in a place long enough and my dad made enough money, we'd get an apartment. Winters were rough – not a lot of people boating up north, so we'd have to head back south every winter and hope for mild weather so there would be work.” 

Alana didn't need Will to describe because she could infer – he'd grown up as a transient, obviously very poor, with little stability. So much moving around gave him little opportunity to make friends and maintain long-term relationships. That was why those troubles persisted into adulthood: he'd had little opportunity to practice as a child. 

She stopped herself purposefully, not wanting to analyze him too much. While she'd been thinking, Will had gone silent. She knew she'd have to spend this session pulling the information she wanted out of him, but he was at least more willing to give it than he'd ever been before. “Tell me more,” she said. “What was school like? You said you didn't go all the time.” 

He nodded. “I pretty much taught myself to read when I was really young and I spent a lot of time in the library. My dad would drop me off on the weekends and I'd spend all day there, both days. That's how I was educated. Most of the time, when I went to school, I was far ahead of the other kids.”

Alana smiled. “That's not surprising _at all._ ” She paused. “Did you make friends in school?”

“No. Everything was temporary. I learned early on that it wasn't worth making friends, because I'd leave them soon enough.” 

“So you were alone a lot?”

He nodded. “I only had my dad.” 

Alana could picture his lonely childhood vividly. There was a question at the tip of her tongue – her professional instincts were kicking in – but she was hesitant to ask it, for fear of offending Will. She decided to just ask; Will valued honesty above nearly everything else, and she knew he wouldn't want her to coddle him. “Did your dad have substance abuse issues?” she asked. “Did he drink a lot?” She carefully measured the tone of her voice, making sure it was gentle, putting in as much compassion as she could. 

He nodded, looking away from her. 

_The next step._ “Did he hit you?”

“No, no,” he said vehemently. “He wasn't a violent drunk. He didn't yell at me, either. He wasn't abusive when he drank. He was just absent.” 

“Neglect is a form of abuse, Will. It's unintentional in some cases, like your dad's, but that doesn't mean it didn't affect you.” Alana leaned forward and very gently placed her hand on Will's shoulder. “I know this is hard to talk about, and hard to hear. But we have to talk about it. You've been holding this in too long and it's tearing you up inside.” 

Will was silent for a few moments. “I think he drank because he wanted to forget.”

“Many people do. But it's not your job to apologize for him.” She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly. “Keep going, my love.”

Will sighed. “That was our life for a long time. Then my grandfather died and my dad was able to put some money down on a house in Lafayette with his inheritance. I think he was tired of moving and wanted to settle down.

“My dad started seeing a woman there, and they got married when I was fourteen. My stepmom was okay at first – she thought I was weird, but everyone does. I'd never had anyone but my dad so I had no social skills. I didn't know what to make of her or how to act around her.”

Alana nodded. “You said she was okay _at first._ What changed?” 

“A year or so after they got married, she got pregnant and for some reason started messing with me. Petty stuff, really – she'd break my things, claimed she'd forgotten to pack my lunch so I couldn't eat, not wash my clothes so I'd smell and the other kids would laugh at me. It was worse after she'd had my second brother – she started hitting me. Not enough to hurt, I mean, I was a teenager already – but she'd push and shove me, smack me in the back of the head or my face, call me names.”

He went silent again. Alana wanted more – the psychologist part of her wanted to delve deeper – but she didn't want to make Will uncomfortable, either. “Did your dad know?”

“I never told him.” He paused. “I didn't know if I was afraid that he'd blame me, or if he already knew and didn't care.” There was such sadness in his voice that tears sprang to Alana's eyes, even though she was attempting to be as professional as she could. _I still love him,_ she thought, _and it hurts me to see him in pain._ She was silent for a while, staring at the man in front of her and seeing the hurt and lonely child he was – still was. She swallowed hard and asked, “So what happened next?”

“As soon as I could, I moved into the college dorms and never went back there. Ever. Not even when my dad died.” 

Alana paused, making a connection between what he was telling her now and something that had slipped out of his mouth months ago. “You told me that you've 'lived rough' before. What did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what you think. I've been homeless.”

“As a child and as an adult?”

He nodded. “It was different when I was an adult, though. It was my choice, sort of.”

“Because you would rather be alone than put up with whatever would happen at your dad's if you came home.” 

He nodded again. “During the summer, there weren't any classes, so the dorms were closed. I didn't have many friends, so I couldn't stay with anyone, and I didn't want to go back home. So I lived in my car instead.” 

Alana had grown up in her parents' large and beautiful home in Leesburg. She had gone to the University of Virginia as an undergraduate, and her parents had supported her all through medical school at Johns Hopkins. They had given her the down payment on her home once she was hired at Georgetown, because they had been so proud of her, their _doctor_ daughter. She owned a closet full of expensive clothes and her home was beautiful and modern, not full of secondhand and salvaged furniture like Will's had been. She could understand the significance of his experience as a professional, but it was so foreign to her own that she felt privileged and spoiled. Will had worked for everything he had, and though it hadn't looked impressive to other people, it had been all his, built from scratch. 

And that was why he had been so hurt – was so hurt – when it was all taken away from him in an instant. _Hannibal, you fucking asshole. You scum of a human being. Did you know this? Did you bother to ask, or were you so preoccupied with playing games with your patient, experimenting on him, trying to bring out an alter that never existed in the first place so that you could have someone who understood you, maybe someone who would kill with you?_

“Alana? Don't cry.”

He had caught her again – she had started to cry and hadn't realized it, but it was mostly from anger now rather than sadness. She wiped away her tears and Will grasped one of her hands. “I can stop,” he said. 

Alana let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. “I don't want you to stop,” she said, and she had begun to cry again, harder than before. “I'm _angry._ That's why I'm crying.” 

“Why are you angry?” he asked, as if he couldn't conceive that someone else could be angry for him. 

“Did you tell Hannibal about any of this? Did he even ask?”

“He asked once. I told him a little, and then...” He laughed ironically. “And then he changed the subject to Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

“Of course,” Alana said bitterly. “Because that was the only thing he was ever fucking interested in. He wasn't interested in being a psychiatrist --”

“He was interested in the cases, in murder,” Will said, finishing her thought. “And in making me think I was a murderer.” 

Alana continued to cry, out of control now, as she had been in that parking lot last month when her world had been turned upside-down. Will got up from his chair and hugged her, lifting her up out of her chair and holding her to his chest. “I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “He was supposed to help you, and he did nothing to help, only to hurt --”

“It's okay. You're helping me. You've helped me more than you know.” She felt his fingers in her hair, felt his chin lay warm and heavy on the top of her head. She shook her head against his chest. “This is my fault,” she whispered. 

“It's not. You didn't know. No one knew. Please don't cry.” He continued to hold her and he was so warm and wonderful and how did he end up holding her? Will, who didn't like to be touched just two years ago – Will, who could barely make eye contact with anyone except for her, was holding _her_ and comforting _her._

Gradually, her tears stopped and a wave of calm swept over her. Will hadn't let go. She raised her head and he, taking his cue from her, kissed her. She reached up and touched his face. “I love you so much,” she said. “You are so brave, you know that?” 

He shook his head. “Yes, you are,” she insisted. “I know you don't believe it right now – that you feel like you can't believe it right now – but I hope, someday, you'll see it.” 

He was silent for a while, unable to look at her. “Maybe we should stop for tonight,” he muttered. 

“Absolutely not. We're finishing. I'm getting the whole story out of you tonight.” 

“There's not much left to tell.”

“That's fine. I still want you to finish.” She guided him back to his chair and got him to sit, and then she sat down in her own chair, slightly opposite him. “Go on,” she said, when they were both settled. “How did you survive on the street? What was it like?” 

He was quiet for a long while. He had turned his face away from her and she could see that he was crying. Finally, Alana reached for one of his hands and clasped it in both of hers. This was the key point – she was about to hit the heart of the matter, and that was why Will was falling apart. Everything inside him was screaming at him to stop – the feelings of shame and sadness and anger were resurfacing from where they'd been pushed deep, deep down – and she'd have to push him through. 

“Will,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

“I can't.” 

“Yes, you can. Turn your head and look at me.” She carefully balanced the tone of her voice between stern and gentle – she wanted him to do what he asked, but she didn't want him to feel threatened. 

He turned and looked into her eyes. She could see the tracks of his tears on his face. “I know this is hard, baby,” she said softly. “And you're doing so well. I lost it, too. But you shouldn't feel ashamed. You have no reason to feel ashamed.” 

“I still do.”

“I know.” She squeezed his hand. “Keep going. Tell me how you survived.” 

He sighed. “I usually worked odd jobs – I could still fix things. I'd find a place to park under a shade tree in a large parking lot, usually a movie theater or shopping center or something, someplace where I wouldn't be noticed for a while. 

“I'd take the bus wherever I needed to go, get whatever money or food I needed to, and then I'd go back to the car in the evening, after the sun had set. It was too hot to stay during the day. I'd read at night with a flashlight, or listen to the radio. Most of the time I was so tired from work that I would just fall asleep.” 

“Did your dad ever ask why you never came home?”

“I'd call him a couple times a week. He'd want me to come home but I would lie and tell him I was taking summer classes. He didn't know how college worked because he never went, and my stepmom wasn't about to question why I wasn't there.” Alana nodded.

“I managed to save enough money to get an apartment after I graduated and went into the police academy.” He chuckled. “It was a total shithole, but at least it was mine. The day I got a real bed was one of the best days of my life.” 

Alana smiled. “What kind of relationship did you have with your dad after that?”

“I'd speak to him a few days a week. He started drinking again; I'm not sure why. I don't know how things were going with my stepmom because I didn't want to ask about her.”

“Did you see him?”

“Once in a while. I'd go to family things when I was invited, as long as they were in public. I knew she wouldn't do anything to me in public.” He paused. “I wasn't scared of her. I was just really angry at her. I didn't know if I could control myself if she said something or tried to do something.”

“So you figured it would be best to keep away.”

“Yeah. Plus, my brothers didn't like me much. They were scared of me.”

Alana, who was still holding his hand, squeezed it. Her heart ached for him. Will had felt betrayed by his own family – the one group of people who should have accepted him and loved him as he was. _He's always been an outsider, even to his own family,_ she thought. 

“Alana? You okay?”

“I'm just sad for you.”

“You shouldn't be.” 

She sighed. “I still am.” She looked at him in the firelight. He looked drained and sad. “What about your brothers?” she asked. 

“I don't know where they are.” He shrugged. “If they've heard anything, they probably think I'm insane anyway. My stepmom always said I was.” 

“I'm sorry, Will.” 

“Don't be. It has nothing to do with you.” 

Alana squeezed his hand again. “You were _abused._ It's easy to minimize it, to say it wasn't that bad, but it affected you. It's still affecting you.” He looked away from her, said nothing. She let him sit silently for a while so he could absorb what she had said, what had happened during the session. But after several minutes passed and he said nothing, she knew she had to speak. “How do you feel?” she asked. 

“I'm tired,” he murmured. He still wouldn't look at her. 

“Look at me,” she said quietly, keeping her voice gentle. “Don't turn away.” 

He turned toward her again, and the look in his eyes were haunted, devastated. Alana hadn't seen him look that way in months...not since he'd been released from Baltimore State Hospital. He _hurt,_ but she had to keep going. 

“What are you tired of?” she asked. “Let it out.” 

He leaned forward and rubbed his face with his hand. _Will's distress signal,_ she thought. “I can't any more, please...” he said. 

She got up from her chair and knelt in front of him, hugged him. “Let it out,” she whispered. “It's all right.” 

She knew there was more, but he couldn't give voice to it yet. If he did right now, a floodgate of sadness and rage would open, and he wasn't sure if he could close it. Fear was blocking him. Alana held him for a while, rocking him slightly, but she knew he wasn't likely to get anywhere else tonight. He was too exhausted. 

“We'll stop for tonight,” she said, running her hands through his hair. “We'll stop.” She felt him nod against her shoulder. “You did really well. I'm proud of you.” She let go of him and looked into his eyes, then cradled his face in her hands. “Finish your drink and let's get ready for bed, okay?”

He nodded. Alana got up to retrieve the small bucket of water they kept to put out the fire. She poured the water over the wood, watching as the fire steamed and then died down to embers. Will was silent in his chair. He'd made no effort to move. 

She sat back down next to him. She could tell that he wanted to say something, was aching to say something. She decided to give him time. After a few minutes of silence, her patience paid off. “When I dream, I'm still in my house in Wolf Trap,” he said quietly. “And then I wake up and I'm surprised I'm here.” 

Alana nodded, but said nothing. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, lowering his head. 

“Don't be sorry,” she said. “It was your home. And from what you've just told me, you haven't had many places to call home in your life.” A few tears ran down his cheeks as she spoke. “Say it,” she said. “Don't be ashamed.”

He let out a long sigh. “I want to go home, Alana. And I know I can't. It's gone.” He closed his eyes. Tears still rolled down his cheeks. 

“We can go out there this weekend and you can say goodbye, if you want. You can get some closure.” 

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I'm afraid that if I go back, I won't want to leave.”

“I think the benefit you'll get from closure is worth the risk.” She rose from her chair and extended her hand. “Let's go inside.” Will grasped her hand and got up. 

They let in the dogs and closed up the house. Alana turned on the alarm system, and they both went upstairs, the dogs following them as they always did. They were both drained from the harrowing session, Will most of all, but Alana began kissing him and he responded back. They undressed each other. “Come into the bath with me?” Alana asked him, and he accepted with a nod. 

She filled the tub with warm water and they both climbed in: Will first, and then Alana. They hadn't done this since the summer, and Alana had missed it. She laid her head on his chest and listened to his beating heart. They were silent, listening to each other's breaths and holding each other in the warm water. When she started to feel tired, she glanced up at Will, who was nodding off. She shook him a little and he woke. “Let's finish up,” she said. 

She sat with her head on her knees as Will shampooed and rinsed her hair. “I love you,” she told him. 

“You keep saying that tonight,” he said quietly.

“I want to say it all the time,” she said, “because it's how I feel.”

He was quiet for a minute or so. “I love you, too,” she heard him say. She could detect the smile in his voice. 

After their bath, they climbed into bed naked and made love. Alana delighted in the clean smell of his body and his warm mouth as he kissed her all over. After sex, he fell asleep quickly, but though she was tired herself, she stayed awake long into the night, thinking about what he had told her. 

 

At work the next day, she checked the public records to see whether or not Will's house had been sold. It had been, recently, for a discounted price – probably due to the reputation of its previous owner. If they were going back, they would have to be careful not to disturb the new owners. 

Alana had to admit to herself that she was disappointed to see that the house had sold. Though her rational mind knew it was almost impossible, she had allowed herself to fantasize about Will being able to buy it back one day, when he was exonerated, and resume his life there. As much as she loved her own home, she might have decided to sell it and move in with him, fix the place up, and maybe, just maybe, raise a family there with him. It was a beautiful place with plenty of land, very suitable for a family. But that dream was officially gone, and she had to focus now on helping Will move on and accept his new life. 

Late Saturday morning, Alana and Will drove out to Wolf Trap. The trip was short; she and Will hadn't lived far apart. They drove past the house first, planning to park in the wooded area near the house and approach it from that side, so that the new occupants wouldn't see them. 

There was a silver Subaru in the driveway in place of Will's Volvo, but otherwise, the house looked the same. Will knew the area well, so he directed Alana on where to park so that they wouldn't be seen from the house. They parked on the side of the road and Alana removed an old blanket from the back of the car.

The air was balmy in the woods, and Alana was glad she had worn a sweater. She and Will held hands as they walked carefully towards the house, being mindful of fallen branches and the uneven ground. “We'll stop here,” Will said. They were still in the woods, deep enough so that they couldn't be seen from the house, but close enough so that they could still see it. Alana spread the blanket down on the soft, cool ground, and she and Will sat facing the house. 

“They have children,” she said. She saw two little blonde girls – or, at this distance, they looked like girls because of their long hair – playing in the backyard. They had the same toys she'd had growing up: a plastic slide, a playhouse, a wagon. The white and yellow house behind them glowed in the sun. She was surprised at the surge of emotion she felt as she looked at it – tears came to her eyes. “It's beautiful,” she said, grasping Will's hand and squeezing it. 

“It was always beautiful,” Will said quietly. “A white ship on a green sea. A safe harbor.” Alana looked at him and he was struggling to hold back his tears. _He's always holding back,_ she thought. _Even around me._

She wrapped her arm around him and lay her head on his shoulder. “It's okay,” she whispered. “Let it out. Please let it out. It's eating you up inside.” She held his hand. 

“I'm still scared,” he whispered.

“Don't be. I can swim, remember?”

And, finally, the dam broke. Will began to cry, slowly at first, and then harder, with great gasping sobs. Alana held him tightly, and she, too, cried against his shoulder. 

“Why?” he moaned against her, after a while. “Why do I lose everything I love?”

Alana sobbed alongside him. “I'm so sorry,” she said, but _sorry_ didn't seem good enough, not when she had had her own part in this. 

“I can't anymore,” he sobbed. “I feel like I'm being torn apart...there's days I can barely take it. I want to kill him and I know I can't and it's eating me alive.” He started rubbing his forehead with his hand. “I dream about it. I dream about killing him...and they're not nightmares, Alana, they feel _good._ I'm scared. I'm scared of what he's turned me into.” 

Alana took his face in her hands. “Listen to me,” she said. “You are not a bad person. He has not turned you into anything – if you believe that, you're playing right into his hands. 

“These thoughts are just thoughts, spurned on by anger, by rage. You think I've never thought about killing him, too? Didn't I swear to you in a parking lot that I was going to kill him?” He nodded. “But we haven't killed him,” she continued. “We're not going to, unless we have to. Unless he forces us to. You are _not_ going back to prison for him, you understand me?”

He nodded. He was still crying, and Alana let him cry, made no attempt to silence him. He needed to release his sadness and rage, or he'd turn it against himself. 

They continued to sit together in the woods, looking at the house that had meant so much to Will and to which he could never return, like so many houses in his past. Alana rocked him as he cried against her shoulder. Eventually, the mother of the two little girls came out the back door and took them inside. 

Will had quieted against her. After a while, he spoke. “I think it's better this way,” he said, clearing his throat and wiping away his tears. “If I'd come back and all my old furniture was here...if it was as if I had never left...”

“I know,” she murmured. 

“I'm glad they have kids,” he said. He took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “There should be kids here. It's a house for a family.” 

Alana looked up at him, studying his face. It suddenly occurred to her that, out of all the things they'd talked about, they'd never talked about children, or the possibilities of their future together. She wasn't even sure Will wanted the same things she did. _It's because we might not_ have _a future,_ Alana thought. She remembered the files she'd put on Jack's desk in Quantico just a few weeks earlier, how he had sat in his chair and rubbed his lip, but had been noncommittal. They had done their best to get the evidence that Will was innocent, and they were prepared if Will went back to trial, but the truth was, Jack could come cruising up her driveway any day to arrest Will and take him back to federal prison or Baltimore State Hospital. She knew it, and Will knew it. Their lives were essentially at a standstill until something was decided, for good or ill. And Alana knew that whatever dreams she had would have to stay dreams, for now.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Will had seemed down in the days after his final trip to his old house in Wolf Trap – Alana knew that the visit, and talking about his family and his past, had brought up a lot of old emotions that he had kept buried for a long time. She was proud of the progress he'd made, but she knew that this was only the first step in what would be a long journey for him. It was obvious to her that he still held a large amount of anger and sadness that he had yet to release. 

She was determined to cheer him up a bit, determined to snap him out of the funk he'd gone into. She knew her primary weapon was physical affection, so she spent a lot of time with him after the visit to Wolf Trap sitting in his lap and cuddling with him. They had sex every night, usually multiple times. Alana enjoyed herself, and Will certainly responded. 

But Alana had another reason for wanting Will to cheer up: a few weeks earlier, she had resurrected her long-dormant Facebook account and had contacted some of her old friends, who seemed happy to hear from her and eager to catch up. Alana's birthday was the next week, and she had planned a get-together in a bar in D.C. with some of them. She wanted Will to come, but she knew how uncomfortable and overwhelmed he was likely to be. He would be around people he didn't know and who didn't know him, and Alana still wasn't entirely sure how her friends would react to him. She knew they were good people, and felt like they would trust her judgement in regards to him, but dating an accused serial murderer – and bringing him to one's birthday celebration – usually wasn't conducive to social situations. 

Alana had a problem she needed to solve and, as was her wont, she hatched a solution. She approached Will early Wednesday evening as he was lying on the sofa, reading. “We're having our fifty minutes tonight?” he said, looking up at her. 

She sat down next to him. “I was wondering if you would be up for a different kind of therapy tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Don't get excited, tiger,” she said. “It's not that.” 

“What is it, then?” 

“It's about the get-together for my birthday next week. I still want you to come.” 

Will lowered his eyes. “I don't know...I think I'll just drag you down.”

“Will,” she said. “You're my boyfriend. You're a very important person in my life. I want my friends to meet you.” 

He looked skeptical. “My reputation precedes me.” 

“My friends are nice people. They won't judge you.” _I hope,_ she thought. Will had lowered his eyes again. “I really want you to be there with me,” she said. 

“What's this therapy about?” he asked. She knew he was avoiding the commitment – mostly out of fear. She wasn't surprised. 

“Did you ever go out much before everything happened?” she asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“Out to eat? To bars and restaurants? To concerts, maybe? You love music.” 

“Not really,” he said. 

“Why not?” she asked. She suspected why, but she wanted to hear from him. 

He sighed. “The noise, the lights, the people...it all makes me nervous.” 

“More than nervous, I bet. What do you feel?”

“Like it's...too much. I can't filter it out.” He paused. “I've tried before. It's just never worked.”

“Were you by yourself?” she asked.

“Most of the time,” he said. 

Once they had become intimate, she and Will had shared their histories – both of them had been in a series of short-lived relationships. Their relationship with each other was the longest and most intimate either of them had ever had. Will had told her that relationships, like everything requiring social skills, were difficult for him, and that all of the women he'd dated hadn't wanted to stick around long enough to put up with his neuroses. Alana knew that she could help him, and wanted to try – he would never be an extrovert, she knew, but he could at least be _better,_ with practice. He was capable of that much. 

She smiled at him. “Well, you have me now,” she said. “And I want to work with you on learning to filter things out, so that you can feel like a normal person. In order to do that, though, we have to go into an environment where you can practice.”

“So that means going out to a bar.” 

“Yes.” 

He agreed to go, even though he was still feeling down. Alana decided to take him to a Japanese steakhouse she liked, because it meant sitting at a table with strangers. The hostess seated them at a grill with another couple and their teenage son. “Just so you know,” the hostess said, “we'll be having karaoke in the lounge starting at nine.”

Alana grinned and gave a significant look to Will. “That sounds excellent!” 

“No,” he replied.

“Will!”

He scowled at her. “Did you plan this?”

“No,” she said. He still looked skeptical. “I swear I didn't!” He looked down at the menu, away from her. She looked down at her menu, too, pretending to look at the beer selections. After a minute or so, she nudged him with her shoulder. “As part of your therapy session tonight,” she said quietly, “I'm going to get you drunk and you're going to sing a song.”

“I am absolutely not,” he replied, still not looking at her. 

She raised her head again. “We can do a duet!” she said excitedly. “How about 'You're The One That I Want'? _I got chiiiillls, they're multiplyin'..._ ” 

“No.” 

Alana scowled. “You're being resistant to my treatment.” 

“I am _not_ being resistant,” he said petulantly. “I just don't want to sing.” 

“Fair enough,” she said with a sigh, but it didn't stop her determination. She'd get him to sing. 

They had an enjoyable dinner. Will had never been to a Japanese steakhouse, so he didn't expect the show. They drank sake and Japanese beer as they watched the chef prepare their meal, and Alana was relieved when Will relaxed into her touch. 

After dinner, Alana led Will into the lounge, where she ordered them another round of beers. Will wasn't fighting her – she had thought getting him into the lounge would have been harder than it was, but she suspected the alcohol was softening him up. He was still refusing to sing, though. “I can just go up there and tell the host to call your name,” she said.

“You wouldn't,” he replied. “And even if you did, I don't have to get up.”

“Fine then. I want to sing.” She went up to the host and put her name in the rotation – only her name; in spite of her goal she didn't want to play a trick on Will.

“Do you know what you're going to sing yet?” he asked when she returned to the table. 

She shrugged. “I'm not sure yet. The first one's low stakes because the bar's empty.” 

Within fifteen minutes, Alana was called up for her first song. She had decided on Belly's “Feed the Tree,” a favorite of hers since high school. She sang mostly to Will, who smiled at her. After she was done, she returned to their booth and Will kissed her. “How was I?” she asked.

“Adorable,” he said. “You have a good voice.” 

The next singer began, launching into a decent rendition of Amy Winehouse's “Tears Dry On Their Own.” Will wrapped his arm around her and she held his hand. “Is my treatment working?” she asked. He nodded. “I'm amazed we've lasted this long without you wanting to run out the door,” she said. 

“I'm having fun,” he replied. 

“I suppose it helped that I plied you with food and alcohol. And sex, later.”

“Is that a promise?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Definitely,” she said, laughing. 

She was halfway through her second beer, which made her a little sad because she knew that was the last one she could have. Both she and Will had to be careful with their drinking – Alana, because she was driving, and Will, because of his medications – but one of the key goals of her project for the night was getting Will drunk enough so that he would be willing to sing. She didn't know how drunk he'd have to be, exactly, but it was worth a try. 

More patrons came up and sang, with varying degrees of talent, and Alana ordered another round of beers when she and Will had finished theirs. Alana took a few sips of hers, but slyly paid more attention to how much Will was drinking. She gradually became aware that Will was drunk. He was openly affectionate, kissing her for long periods and burying his face in her hair. She giggled when he started to nuzzle her. “What's so funny?” he asked, his voice slurring slightly.

“I never had you pegged for a lovey drunk,” she said. “I like it.”

“I like you,” he murmured. 

She smiled at him. “I like you, too. How are you doing?”

“Good,” he said. “Kissing you helps.” 

“Not overwhelmed?”

“No.” 

“Not nervous?” she said, kissing his cheek just under his left eye.

“Nope.” 

She handed him her beer. “Want more?” she asked.

He squinted. “How many have I had already?” 

“This is the last one, I promise,” she said. He shrugged and started drinking it. 

They continued to watch the karaoke, waiting for Alana's next turn, which got further and further away as the lounge filled up. One of the night's highlight performances was a drunken girl who warbled her way through “Jesus Take the Wheel,” which for some reason left Will in hysterics the likes of which Alana had never seen. He laughed so hard that Alana had to hold him up. 

“Jesus had better take the wheel tonight, or she'll end up in a ditch,” he gasped as she finished, to scant applause. Alana slapped him playfully. “Is this the real reason why you never go out?” she asked. “Are you just secretly an asshole?” 

“Hey, hey – you know I'm an asshole, and you're just as big of one as I am.”

They were interrupted by the next singer, a young man who was doing pelvic thrusts to “Livin' La Vida Loca.” Alana considered ordering another beer. Will had launched into another fit of hysterics. 

Finally, Alana's name was called again. Will was properly drunk, and she decided to act – she shoved him out of the booth and put a hand firmly on his back, shoving him towards the karaoke host. “I'm your backup singer,” she said.

“What?” She saw him turning his head – she kept shoving him forward. “No...Alana, wait --” 

“You'll be great, don't worry.” 

Before he could protest any more, they had reached the stage. “He's going,” she said to the host, taking a microphone and shoving it into Will's hand. “No, no, no,” he kept saying while Alana told the host the song she wanted queued up. 

“It'll be okay,” she told Will. “You'll be fine.”

“I can't sing.”

“You'll be better than 'Jesus Take the Wheel'. And you know this one. Now shush, the song's starting.” And it was – she heard the familiar opening synths of “This Must Be the Place” by the Talking Heads. 

She still wasn't sure if he would sing up until he actually started singing. She sang next to him, backing him up. They'd watched _Stop Making Sense_ so many times together that the song came as second nature to her. A lot of the people in the crowd were singing along. She looked up and saw Will smiling and her heart leapt. 

Alana drove home with the windows open, “Stairway to Heaven” playing loudly on the stereo. Will knew every word; he sang quietly, his eyes closed. Not for the first time, Alana wondered what music felt like to him. 

“Alana,” she heard Will say next to her. 

“Yeah, baby?” she asked, glancing at him. 

“I felt like a normal person tonight.” He smiled at her. “It felt good.” 

Alana beamed back and grabbed his hand. “You can have a normal life, Will. That's what I want you to have.” 

He was still smiling as he lay his head back against the seat, relaxed and settled, happy.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Alana's birthday dawned pleasant and sunny. She had to work that day, but she would be returning in the evening to pick up Will and get dressed for dinner and the celebration with her friends in D.C. Will got up with her and stood with her out in the driveway. They hugged and kissed like teenagers, until Alana finally pulled away with a giggle and a “Seriously, Will, I'm going to be late,” and then a few more kisses for good measure. She waved to him from inside the car, and he waved back, grinning and looking like Baltimore State Hospital had never happened to him. 

She spoke to her parents on the phone while she drove to work and told them how she was planning on spending her birthday. It occurred to Alana as she was speaking to her mother that she hadn't had a long talk with them in a while, and hadn't seen them even though she lived close by. What she had told Will when he asked about her relationships with her family and friends was true enough: her relationships had become strained, most especially the one between herself and her mother. Though she had tried to hide her true feelings for Will from her mother as long as possible, it was impossible for her to hide them once he had moved in with her and obviously had no intention of leaving. Alana and her mother had had a blowout fight over the phone one evening – she was thankful it was while she was driving home, and so Will hadn't known about it – and ever since then, she had spoken to her mother very rarely. 

Alana was hurt by her mother's refusal to accept Will, but it was more than that: to Alana, it appeared as if her mother didn't trust her judgment. She knew that her mother was an avid watcher of sensationalized news shows, and she also knew that those shows had been largely responsible for the inflammatory rhetoric about Will's case, rhetoric which still affected him months later. Alana's upcoming birthday celebration was a prime example: this would be the first time that she and Will would make an appearance amongst her old friends and colleagues as a couple. If strangers made faces at him in the street, how would her friends respond? Her family? And would she have been so open-minded if it had been someone _she_ loved dating an accused serial killer? 

She arrived at work and taught her morning classes, then walked to her office. Serafina, her assistant, was already there. “Happy birthday, Dr. Bloom,” she said. 

Alana hugged Serafina warmly. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said. 

“You had a delivery while you were out,” Serafina said, smiling at her. 

“A delivery?”

“Yeah,” Serafina said. “It's on your desk.” 

When Alana opened her office door, she saw a beautiful bouquet of bright pink roses in a glass vase on her desk. She opened the card. 

_Dear Alana,_ it said,

_I could try to make a cheesy joke here about the appropriateness of flowers and your last name, but I won't. I just wanted to show, in what little way I could, how much I love you. Happy birthday, my beautiful lady. I'll see you tonight._

_Love, Will_

Alana felt herself grin giddily. She couldn't remember the last time someone had sent her flowers. It was silly, really, but it made her feel wonderful. She called Will on her cell phone. “Someone sent me a dozen pink roses and they're sitting on my desk right now,” she said when he picked up. 

“Oh, really? Because I had ordered you a dozen pink roses, too. I hope mine got there before the other guy's.” 

She laughed. “Thank you, baby. They're beautiful.”

“Are roses okay? I didn't know your favorite.” 

“They're perfect. I love roses. The florist gave me a good batch. I'll show you tonight.” 

“Are you having a good birthday so far?” he asked. She could hear the smile in his voice.

“It's been wonderful. Beats the hell out of last year. Thank you.” 

“I'll let you go,” he said. “I know you're busy. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “I'll see you in a few hours.” 

Alana was still in the office, typing up some research reports, when her cell phone rang again a few hours later. Hannibal Lecter's name was on the caller ID. Alana let it ring. A few minutes later, she heard the chime indicating he had left a message. She really didn't want to listen to anything he had to say, let alone return his call, so she decided to leave it for when she got home, to listen to with Will. 

She made the drive home in the early evening. She was trying to focus on what would happen tonight, trying to keep herself excited, but Hannibal's phone call had made her vaguely nauseous. Will and the dogs greeted her when she arrived home, and after she'd laid the vase with her flowers on the kitchen counter and she and Will had admired them, she told him about Hannibal's message. “Did you listen to it?” Will asked. 

“Not yet. I don't want to hear his voice.” 

“Then don't,” he said, stretching out his hand to take her phone. “I'll listen to it and tell you if there's anything interesting.” He kissed her. “Go upstairs and get the bath started. I'll bring the champagne.” 

She grinned and kissed him again. “Don't take too long,” she said. He grinned back.

Alana went upstairs, stripped off her clothes, and stood nude in front of the bathroom mirror. _Not bad for thirty-six,_ she thought. She had to dye her hair every few months to cover the gray that peeked through some of her roots, and it was harder to stay slim than it used to be, though she was the first to acknowledge genes were on her side. A tiny part of her was frightened that forty was so close, but only a tiny part. 

She heard Will behind her, and she turned to face him. He was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, smiling. 

“Let's get in before the water gets cold,” she said. She climbed into the bath and watched Will strip off his clothing. He got in the tub behind her, bringing the bottle and glasses, and carefully served her and himself a glass of champagne. They toasted her birthday, and then they maneuvered their bodies together so they could make love in the warm water. She straddled him and moaned in pleasure as he kissed and sucked on her breasts. 

After they were done and Alana was on her second glass of champagne, she sat in front of Will and let him stroke her back. “Did Hannibal say anything interesting?” she asked.

“No,” Will said. “He wished you a happy birthday and said he misses you.” Will chuckled. “Missing someone would require human emotion and attachment, so I'm not sure if that was the truth or not.” 

“That was cruel, Will,” she said automatically, and then immediately realized who they were talking about.

“ _That_ was cruel?” Will asked incredulously. 

Alana closed her eyes and sighed. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.” She put her head back against his chest. “I don't want to talk about him. He makes me angry, he makes you angry, and I don't want to be angry today.” Talking about Hannibal made her think of her trip to Quantico, and the evidence she'd left with Jack. It had been less than three weeks, and she knew she had to be patient, but to hear nothing at all, even from Beverly...

She consciously stopped the train of thought. They had dinner reservations in D.C. at nine, and they had to hurry if they were going to get there in time. Alana began to wash her hair in earnest. She was keenly aware of the silence that had fallen between them. 

After a few minutes, as Alana was bathing herself, she felt Will place a kiss on her shoulder and stroke her arm. He said nothing, but the gentle, tender acts lifted Alana's spirits a bit. “I love you, baby,” she said quietly.

“I love you,” she heard him reply. 

After they were both clean, they exited the tub and Alana quickly blow-dried Will's hair, since the nights were growing chilly. Alana started to blow-dry her hair and put on her makeup while Will went downstairs to put the champagne away and let out the dogs. 

She was almost finished when she heard Will come back upstairs and go into the guest room to get his clothes. She scolded him playfully for leaving suck marks on her breasts, and she heard him chuckle. He came in a few minutes later, fully dressed with his blazer and tie. “I don't know if my jacket's nice enough for D.C.,” he said. 

Alana smiled. “You look wonderful. You're very handsome, you know. Does anyone ever tell you that?”

“Someone does,” he murmured, kissing her. 

She was wearing the dress he loved best, her black backless dress, and he ran his fingers along her spine, all the way down to the soft skin a few inches above her tailbone. His touch sent a chill of pleasure through her. She was sorely tempted to pull down her panties and let him fuck her again quickly, but they were running low on time. 

They drove up to D.C., Will behind the wheel. Alana had often teased him because he was a slow driver, but he was going at a good pace tonight, trying to make their dinner reservation. Traffic was heavy in the city, but they arrived to the restaurant on time. Will and Alana had gone out to dinner many times since they had been living together, but this was the nicest place they'd been to. She noticed Will was a little anxious, and she sat to the side of him instead of opposite him so she could hold his hand under the table. 

Their dinner was lovely and delicious – Alana had always enjoyed this particular restaurant, and she'd gone there many times with her friends and colleagues. When the check arrived, Will immediately picked it up. “I'll get it tonight,” he said. 

Alana shook her head. “No. It's a lot of money. You don't have that kind of money.” 

“I'm not _completely_ penniless.” 

“You're close to it.” She lowered her voice. “Whatever money you have left needs to be saved...just in case.”

“There's not enough left for me to hire an attorney for more than a few weeks. Might as well spend it.” He smiled at her. “You sure you don't want dessert?” 

“No,” she said, sighing. She didn't want to bicker tonight, but it seemed like she and Will had been on the edge of it all evening. 

Will grasped her hand. “Let me do something for you. You've done enough for me.” There was a tinge of sadness in his voice, of shame. Alana had been supporting him financially for more than six months, and she knew that it was a hit to his pride to not be able to work, to be poor again. “Okay,” she said, finally acquiescing, “but this is the only time.” 

“I _hope_ it's not the only time,” he said. There was a lot behind that statement. Alana smiled again at him, a surge of powerful love rising in her chest. 

They arrived at the bar a bit before eleven. Alana's friends were already there, and they greeted her affectionately, kissing her and telling her how beautiful she looked. Will was pleased to see Beverly and Saul, the only people he knew; Beverly gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Alana's fears about her friends' response to Will were allayed: whatever their personal feelings might have been, they greeted him politely and kindly. 

They all sat together in a corner booth. Jenny Wong, one of Alana's best friends from Johns Hopkins, sat next to her, on the other side from Will. “I missed you,” she said, and Alana hugged her tightly. 

“I missed you too,” Alana said, and she had – she hadn't realized so much. 

“Will's adorable,” Jenny said in her ear. “He looks like Indiana Jones dressed like that. Did he ever get agents writing LOVE YOU on their eyelids when he taught?”

Alana giggled. “Not that I know of.” She smiled. “He's wonderful. He's had it really rough – he's still recovering.” 

Jenny nodded. “I heard.” She paused. “I'm glad you're happy. You deserve it.” 

Brian, another friend of hers, spoke up. “Hey, birthday girl, what are you having?” 

“Scotch and soda,” Alana answered, “to start.” 

“That's my girl!” Brian said loudly, and they all cheered. 

Before long, Alana felt pleasantly comfortable, and pleased to be around her friends and their partners. Beverly had sat down next to Will and they were talking closely, but their conversation didn't seem intense. 

The group of them drank and spent a long time catching up: admiring baby pictures and engagement rings, congratulating each other on published papers or promotions at work, and reminiscing about old memories from college or graduate school. Her friends were kind to Will, although no one asked him about his past or what he did for a living. Alana's drinks kept coming without her having to order them. The feeling of warm pleasantness she had felt was growing; at one point, she laid her head on Will's shoulder and he put his arm around her. 

The night took a sudden turn when Alana saw Jenny, still seated next to her, grow pale. “Oh, no,” she moaned.

“What?” Alana said, then turned her head to look where Jenny was looking. She saw Rick Shepherd's familiar shape coming toward their table, and her heart sank. “Goddammit,” she said to Jenny. “Why is he here?”

“He must've heard about tonight.”

“From fucking _who?_ ” Alana demanded. 

“I think he and Brian are still friends on Facebook. Brian probably checked in and tagged you.” 

“Totally creepy,” Alana's friend Lauren said from across the table. “Brian, this is your fault.” 

“What?” Brian said. “I didn't even think of it. Who the fuck does something like that?”

“Stalker psychopaths by the name of Rick Shepherd,” Lauren said disdainfully.

Rick had reached their table. “Happy birthday, Alana!” he said, grinning. “You look beautiful.” 

Alana decided to put her best face forward, even though Rick Shepherd was only slightly above Hannibal Lecter and Jack Crawford in a list of people she least wanted to see. She and Rick had been students together at Johns Hopkins, and he had been after her for years. Alana had heard from one of her colleagues in graduate school that Rick had a history of battering his girlfriends, and so Alana had always been careful to keep away from him and not show too much interest, but that hadn't kept him away. “Thank you, Rick,” she said, thinking _Not glad to see you._

“What brings you all the way over here?” Lauren asked. Out of all of Alana's close friends, the stately blond Lauren was the most direct – an admirable quality, when one needed it. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” Rick lied, badly. Alana looked at Will, who had detected the lie as well as she had. He was frowning. 

Rick pulled up a chair and joined them, not asking for permission. Alana sighed. _He hasn't changed,_ she thought. _He never knows when he's not wanted...or maybe he does, and just doesn't care._

She heard Will's voice in her ear. “Do you want me to tell that guy to get out of here?”

Alana stroked his arm. “No, baby. I don't want any trouble.” 

“Is he the type to start trouble?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.” She decided more alcohol was necessary to cope with Rick's unwanted presence at her birthday celebration, and dove back into her scotch and soda. 

Half an hour passed. Her friends' effort to freeze Rick out failed, but Alana was determined to ignore him. However, she had been drinking most of the night, and it was starting to catch up with her. “I have to pee,” she told Jenny. “Scootch over.”

“Want me to go with you?” she asked.

“No, I'll be fine.” Jenny got out of the booth, and Alana followed. It wasn't until she stood that she realized how drunk she was – the bar tilted. Jenny grasped her arm. “You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. I'll be back.” She walked to the restroom, cautious of her body language, not wanting to appear drunk. _Fucking Rick, showing up and spoiling everything,_ she thought. _You'd think after so many years, he'd get a fucking clue._ In the restroom, she peed, touched up her makeup, and fixed her hair. She needed to start drinking water, or she'd be on the floor soon. 

When she came out of the restroom, Rick was waiting for her. He grabbed her arm – hard. “Let go of me if you know what's good for you,” she said through gritted teeth. 

“I want to talk to you.”

“You can talk to me without your hand on me,” she said. 

Rick let go. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm just upset.”

“That's no excuse for you grabbing me like that.” She sighed. “What do you want to talk about?” 

Rick was silent for a few moments. “You're fuckin' dating that guy, Alana, really?” he finally said, his voice petulant. 

“You mean Will? Yes, I am dating him. What's wrong with him?”

“He was all over the news a few months back. He was a serial killer and some idiot judge let him go free --”

“That judge wasn't an idiot.” _He just listened. As I should have done._ She took a deep breath. “And yes, my _boyfriend_ Will was incarcerated in a secure state mental hospital on suspicion of serial murder. I fell in love with him, and he fell in love with me. He's an innocent man.” 

“You believe him?”

“Of course I believe him. He's been set free by a federal judge. There's _evidence_ he didn't do anything.” It was absurd – why was she explaining this to Rick, of all people? “Honestly, you have no idea about the specifics of this situation.” It was probably too much alcohol making her upset, but she felt hot tears welling up in her eyes, and her throat felt tight. 

She saw Will coming over and a rush of relief went through her. “Alana? You okay?” he asked. “You've been gone a while.”

“I'm fine, baby. Rick and I were just having a conversation, which is now over.” She tried to hide her arm, just in case Rick had left a mark on her. She felt Will place an arm around her protectively and gently lead her away.

She thought that would be the end, but Rick surged forward and pushed Will firmly against his chest. Will, who was taller than Rick by half a head, kept his feet. “Get away from her, you fucking psychopath!” Rick yelled.

Alana stepped in before Will could react – she shoved Rick back. “Hey! _Hey!_ You leave him alone, you asshole,” she said. “He's not going back to prison because of you.” 

“Prison's where he belongs. I can't believe you. You've gone fucking nuts.” 

Alana was aghast, not only from the fact that Rick had tried to start a fight with Will, but at the way he was talking to her. “ _I've_ gone nuts, Rick? _I've gone nuts?_ ” She felt herself move forward, rage surging within her. She felt Will's arm holding her back. “Get the fuck out of here! Don't you understand that I'm not interested in you and I never have been?” 

“You'd rather be with a goddamned psychopath!” he yelled. 

“Shut the fuck up!” she screamed. “He's not a psychopath!”

She heard Will's voice, surprisingly calm, his arm still holding her back. “Let's go. Now,” he said. 

Her rage had turned, or advanced, into tears. “No...no! He's got _no right_ to talk about you that way. He doesn't know...” She was starting to cry. Will turned her face up to his, firmly. “We have to go now or this will end in a fight,” he said, still calm. “Trust me.” He turned to Rick. “I suggest you close your tab, find the exit, and leave as soon as you can. We don't want you here. You come anywhere near Alana again and I will put you on the fucking floor. Do we understand each other?”

Will's face and voice were like ice. Alana was reminded, quite forcefully, that Will had been a homicide detective in New Orleans once. Rick was probably a puppy dog compared to some of the guys he'd seen there – some of the guys he'd arrested. And Rick didn't know the Will that had put ten bullets in Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the Will that had shot Abel Gideon to protect her. 

Rick raised his head, looked Will in the eye. “Is that a threat, asshole?”

“It's not a _threat,_ ” Will said icily, letting the meaning of his words hang. Alana noticed his face had darkened – she had never, ever seen a look like that on Will's face. This was more than the cop he'd been: this was the man who'd once hunted deranged serial killers for a living, and been the best at it that the FBI had seen in a generation. 

Rick, finally, seemed to register that he wasn't going to win. He backed away and left. Alana and Will watched him go to the bar, and then returned to their table. Will returned Rick's chair to the table he'd taken it from, and the group seemed to heave a sigh of relief. 

Alana and Will sat back down. The psychiatrist part of her kept trying to force her to have fun, to smile, to act like she wasn't shaken up by the encounter with Rick, but she had been. Rick was an idiot, to be sure, but his response had been her worst nightmare come true: that the dirty looks and muttered comments Will received when he was out in public weren't just confined to grocery stores or Target or the pharmacy. Will was tough – she didn't worry about him in a fight – but she worried he'd end up in one, sooner or later. 

She kept looking at her watch under the table, wondering when it would be polite to excuse herself and Will and go home. Then she felt Will wrap his arm around her, felt him kiss her temple. “Don't let what happened ruin your night,” he said in her ear. “He won't come back.” 

“What if he does?”

He grinned at her. “I'm a serial killer, remember? He won't mess with me.” He squeezed her side. “Let me get you another drink. What do you want?” She asked him for a whiskey sour and he promised her a double. 

After one A.M. fell, some of the group started to leave – a few were already quite drunk, and some had work in the morning – and Alana gave her friends warm hugs and kisses. She became gradually less aware of time; the night started to blur more and more. “'m drunk,” she said to Will, slumping against him. “Kiss me.” 

He did. “I think I want to go home,” she said afterward. She put a hand on his crotch and started kneading it. He took her hand off. “Later,” he said. 

“Now,” she said. 

“I think the night's almost over,” Jenny said, giggling.

“The night's just begun,” Alana said, too loudly. “I got Will trashed just the other night – he did karaoke. Tell her,” she said, nudging him. 

“Yeah, she had one of her schemes,” he said. “It worked.”

“My schemes always work,” Alana said. “'s because I'm really smart.”

“And determined,” Will said. He was caressing the skin on her arm. His touch felt so good...

Half an hour later, Alana's birthday celebration was officially over. She said her goodbyes to Jenny and Brian, who were the only ones left. Somehow the tab was paid – she wasn't sure who got it, but vaguely remembered herself offering and being turned down. Will guided her into the car and buckled her seatbelt for her. “I want cheesecake,” she said. 

“I thought you wanted to go home?” 

She shook her head. Where had Will gotten that idea? “No, no. It's my birthday and I want a slice of cheesecake. With a candle in it.”

“It's 2:00 in the morning. Where are we going to find cheesecake at 2:00 in the morning?” 

“We're in D.C. Something's open. Just drive toward Georgetown.” 

And so he did. Alana put on the radio and sang “You Can Do Magic” by America loudly and obnoxiously, laughing the whole time. During “Gypsy” by Fleetwood Mac, she leaned over and looked at Will. “You know we were in graduate school in the same region at the same time, and we never met?” 

“We went to different schools,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“But what if we did meet, and we just didn't know each other?”

He glanced at her, smiling. “Maybe we did.” 

“I thought you were hot the first time I saw you,” she said. “You looked so lost and so serious at the same time. I'd heard so much about the great Will Graham, and then I saw you, and I was like, 'All that, and he's hot, too.'” 

Will laughed. “Is that why you never wanted to be alone in a room with me?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because I knew I would fall in love with you if I was.” 

“Not because you had a professional interest in me?”

“No. That was a lie I told everyone to hide my true feelings.” 

He smiled at her, that adorable smile that crinkled his eyes – the one he only used for her. “I'm glad you broke your rule.”

“I am, too. Every day.” 

They were near the bars and restaurants used by Georgetown students when Alana pointed out a diner. “Here, baby. They have good cheesecake.” He turned into the parking lot and they went inside. The waitress seated them at a booth in the well-lit diner, and was about to hand them menus when Alana told her exactly what she wanted. “Well, happy birthday,” the waitress said. “We'll see what we can do.” 

Alana thanked her, then lay her head on Will's chest and listened to his beating heart and the calm sounds of his breathing. Her mind flashed back to the confrontation at the bar, and the dark look on Will's face. Hidden deep inside this gentle, awkward man she loved was a lion. She'd always suspected the beast was there, but she'd never seen it. And instead of scaring her, it made her feel comforted. 

Alana's slice of cheesecake arrived, with whipped cream and a lit candle in it. “Are you going to sing to me?” she asked Will. 

He shook his head. “I wasn't planning on it. Don't have much of a voice.” 

“I don't care.” She looked up at him. “Please?” She stuck out her bottom lip for a better effect. 

“Okay.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

She giggled. “You're blushing.” 

He took a deep breath, and sang to her, quietly: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Alana, happy birthday to you.” 

She closed her eyes, ostensibly to made a wish, but it was more like a prayer. _I want everyone to know that Will is an innocent man._ She blew out the candle. 

Another hour and a half later, after a large slice of cheesecake, a long drive home, and some sleep, she heard Will's voice and felt his hand shake her shoulder gently. “We're home.” She was groggy and wanted to sleep. “You can't sleep in the car,” she heard him say.

“You do it all the time,” she said, or thought she said. Her mouth wasn't working quite right. She was nodding off again. 

“I've got you,” she heard him say. He picked her up and carried her inside, then laid her carefully on the sofa. The dogs were milling around, sniffing her anxiously. “They're worried about you,” Will said. 

“I'm fine, babies,” she said, petting the ones within reach. “I'm fine.” She closed her eyes – she would be very sick in the morning. She could already feel it. She heard Will's footsteps: he had gone back outside to get her purse and shoes from the car, closed the door, and now she heard him turn on the alarm system. “I don't want to get up from here,” she said. “Take the back cushions off and lay behind me.”

“Give me a few minutes,” he said. She could hear his footsteps on the floor, going toward the kitchen. She must have dozed off for a few minutes, because Will's voice woke her again. “There's water here for you, if you need it.” He knew she'd be sick, too. He was no stranger to heavy drinking. 

“Thank you, my love,” she said. She felt his hands on her hair, pulling it out of its chignon and letting it fall down her shoulders. 

“Mmm,” Alana murmured. A few moments later, she felt him take the back cushions off the sofa and lie next to her. He felt so warm behind her. She could feel his breath on her neck. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she put her arm on top of his. “I love you so much,” she said. “You don't ever have to leave. You don't even have to work. Just cook me dinner and fix my faucets and be warm and sweet like this forever.” 

She heard him laugh softly behind her. “Happy birthday,” he said. 

_It's not my birthday any more, silly,_ she was going to say, but she fell asleep before she could say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr: forestardenne.tumblr.com. Come and chat with me!
> 
> SPOILER WARNING: The next chapter, through the end of this story, will contain major spoilers for the novels Hannibal and Red Dragon, and potential spoilers for the TV series. Chances are, if you're reading this story, you already know what happens, but this warning is just in case. ;)


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I am retelling Mason Verger's and Benjamin Raspail's attacks as they appear in _Hannibal_ and _Silence of the Lambs_. These attacks are not my own invention, but those of Thomas Harris. Many fans have already pointed out Harris's problematic and potentially offensive portrayals of homosexual and transgender characters in his books; I chose to remain true to the canon while also understanding that this is a serious issue with readers of the series. This theme will be discussed in this chapter, and I have tried to do so with sensitivity. Anyone who wishes to discuss this further is welcome to do so in the comments or on my Tumblr.

October had come in, chilly and brisk, before Freddie Lounds called again. “You were right, Will,” she said. “As soon as I mentioned your name, he wanted to talk to you.” 

Freddie had obtained permission for herself, Will, and Alana to visit Mason Verger in the long-term nursing facility where he lived in Baltimore. She emailed Will and Alana a copy of the police report about Verger's attack, but the report didn't mention Hannibal at all. In fact, the police had seemed to believe Verger had inflicted his terrible injuries on himself in a drug-fueled haze. To the best of Freddie's knowledge, Hannibal had never been questioned about Mason Verger, not even as a consultant on his mental state. 

On the Saturday in the second week of October, Will and Alana drove up to Baltimore to the care facility. Freddie was already there when they arrived. The Verger family paid for personal security for Mason; it was his own security guard who checked their identification and led them to his client's room. 

The ruin of a young man lay on the bed. He was a high-level quadriplegic: Alana could tell by the respirator in his throat and the device he used to control the bed with his own breaths. His arms lay limp at his sides; they were skinny because all the muscle tone had been lost. A laptop computer was mounted on the bed over him. One blue eye looked at them; it had no lid, and there was some kind of lens over it to keep it moist. The other eye was gone, the empty orbital covered with a skin graft. He had no nose or lips. The bones of his teeth and tendons of his jaw were almost completely visible, covered only by a nearly transparent layer of skin. He was, quite literally, a living skull. It was horrifying to look at – but Alana remembered that she was a doctor, and steeled herself. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Verger,” Will said. “Thank you for inviting us.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graham, Miss Lounds,” Verger said, a surprisingly clear voice emanating from his lipless mouth, as he spoke between pumps of the ventilator. “And to you as well, Dr. Bloom.”

Both Alana and Freddie nodded and greeted him politely. 

“Please have a seat,” Verger said. Alana noticed the room had been prepared for their visit: there were three chairs in a neat line, against the wall. All three of them took one and placed them next to the bed, with Will the closest to Verger and Alana and Freddie behind him. 

Once all of them had settled, Will began to speak. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me. I'm --” 

“Of course I want to talk to you,” Verger said. “You're Dr. Lecter's most famous patient.” 

Will paused. “Do you know why I'm here?” He was all cop now, Alana thought – treading carefully, not wanting to influence Verger's answers. 

“You want to know how and why Dr. Lecter did this to me.” 

Alana felt as if her heart had turned to ice in her chest. Will had told Freddie specifically not to mention Lecter – had she broken that rule in order to secure this interview? 

Will seemed to key into that possibility, too. “You say Dr. Lecter did this to you?” 

“Yes,” Verger answered. “But you know that already. You have the security footage from my home in Owings Mills.” 

Both Will and Alana glanced at Freddie, who looked back at them. 

“Don't blame Miss Lounds,” Verger said. “It was given to her with my knowledge and permission. I wanted her to have it. I thought that it would lead _you_ here, Mr. Graham. You've fallen off the grid since your release from custody.” 

Will smiled ironically. “I think you can understand why I dropped off the grid. Would you be willing to tell us the story of what happened to you?”

“I _want_ to tell you the story, Mr. Graham,” Verger said. He looked at Alana with one eye. “You were once an associate of Dr. Lecter's, weren't you?” There was no accusation in his tone, but Alana knew she had to tread carefully. “I once was, yes,” she said. 

“You aren't any longer?”

Verger had certainly done his research – Alana wasn't necessarily surprised, but she was also acutely aware that questioning Verger was dangerous. It was proof positive that she, Will, and Freddie were hot on Hannibal's trail. She said, “Dr. Lecter and I remain colleagues, but our relationship is strictly professional.” Alana knew it was a clumsy dodge, but she didn't want to state her suspicions of Lecter outright. 

Verger did not answer. He only examined Alana with his one eye. She took his silence as permission to continue. “Mr. Verger, court records indicate that you were assigned to Dr. Lecter as part of a reduced sentence for your...charges.” Wanting to focusing on the story, she did not mention the nature of the charges. 

“Yes, Dr. Bloom.” 

“Would you please tell us your initial impression of Dr. Lecter?”

“I liked him a lot. He wasn't like any of the other psychiatrists I'd seen. We didn't have sessions where he tried to diagnose me or try to fix what was wrong with me. We had conversations.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alana saw Will shift ever so slightly, losing his careful control. Verger hadn't noticed. He continued, “He was very interested in the time I spent in Africa – I'd amassed an impressive collection of instruments of torture. I invited him over to show him.” 

“You invited him to your home in Owings Mills?” Freddie asked, clarifying. 

“Yes. I'd also planned on seducing him. He was gorgeous, a work of art. So elegant.” Verger made a noise that was something akin to a laugh, but it sent a shudder of horror down Alana's spine when it emitted from the lipless mouth. 

Will said nothing, only nodded at Verger to continue. 

“I wasn't bad looking, and I thought he liked me, too, with the way he used to look at me. When he arrived, I was dressed in my leathers. Dr. Lecter didn't react. That was disappointing, but I was encouraged by the fact that he didn't seem intimidated by it. He looked very handsome. I remember he was wearing gray and red. He'd brought a bottle of the most exquisite wine, and he insisted on pouring both of us a glass first thing. Once we had our wine, I took him upstairs. 

“I'd been volunteering at the dog shelter as part of my community service, and I showed him two dogs I'd adopted. I put them in the same cage with only water but no food, just to see what would happen. I wondered how long it would be before they started eating each other.” He laughed again. Alana felt a wave of nausea rise from her stomach, but she steeled her face so that Verger couldn't see her disgust. 

“What happened next?” Will asked. Alana glanced at him, but he'd steeled his face, too – he was using his skill as an interrogator to keep himself together while Verger was talking. 

“After he'd seen the dogs, I took him to my room. I had everything set up nice for him, whatever he wanted. I showed him my noose – you know, for autoerotic asphyxiation. I'm sure you know what that is.”

“I do,” Will said. 

“Have you ever done it?” Verger asked.

“I can't say that I have,” Will replied. His voice was even. 

“Too bad. It's exhilarating. I can't do it any more, though.” He laughed his horrifying laugh again.

He continued, “Dr. Lecter said he was curious about how it worked, and wanted me to show him. I thought that was strange that he didn't know, but he looked so hot when he asked me, and I wanted so much to get him to fuck me, so I strung myself up. I took out my dick and started playing with myself, hoping to get a reaction from Dr. Lecter. Sometimes people are slow to warm up to that stuff.”

Verger paused, waiting for an answer. Will only nodded. Alana tried to keep her face as blank as possible. 

“Dr. Lecter was sitting in the corner watching me jerk off with those eyes of his, and he was like steel. Nothing. But I was determined. Then he reached into his jacket like James Bond and pulled out a pill bottle and offered me some, must have been four or five. I was so excited. I hadn't done drugs in a while because of those fucking tests for the courts.”

Alana noticed how Verger's tone and language had changed – he'd been very formal and polite when they walked in, but now that he was into the story, he sounded like the young man he was. 

Verger continued. “I didn't even care what he gave me. I didn't question it. I trusted him. I figured it wouldn't be anything too bad, since he was a doctor. I popped the pills.”

“What did they look like?” Will asked. 

“Capsules. Blue and white.” 

“The police report said they were a mixture of PCP, methamphetamine, and acid,” Freddie said. “Homemade.” 

Verger laughed again. “That sounds about right. I'd never been so high in my life – it was like I flew out of my own body. I knew I was headed towards the best come of my life, so I started jerking off again. Things are hazy after that. I remember seeing Dr. Lecter getting out of his chair – I was so high it felt like it took him hours to cross the room – and he walked towards the mirror. He kicked the bottom, took a shard of the glass, and handed it to me. I was kind of pissed because I had to take my hand off my dick to take it from him, but I was willing to do anything he wanted. He looked me dead in the eye and told me to start peeling off my face with it.”

“And you did it?” Will asked.

“It sounded like a good idea at the time, and my body didn't really feel like my body. I didn't think it would actually do anything to my real body. I was completely fucked up. I really don't remember much after that. I remember stabbing myself in the face with the mirror a few times, peeling off the skin, and then feeding it to the dogs. I don't know where they came from; Lecter must have let them out. I didn't feel the pain. I blanked out sometime and came to in the hospital a few weeks later. My neck was broken at C2. The doctors said it was a miracle I survived.” He laughed again. “Look at me. I'm a miracle!” 

Now that Verger had told his story, Alana was sure of two things – first, that Verger was very likely a psychopath, and secondly, that Hannibal was one too, if what Verger was saying was true. She knew from the profile of the Chesapeake Ripper that he was a sadist and torturer, but it was still difficult for her, in spite of all the evidence she knew of, to reconcile the man she'd known for so many years with the monster Verger was describing. But if Verger was telling the truth – and Alana had no reason to doubt him – then what Hannibal had done to him was cold and calculating as well as sadistic. This was no crime of passion. 

Will asked Verger, “Do you think the police believed you?”

“Not at all, or Dr. Lecter would have been arrested.” He paused for a few moments, the ventilator hissing. “But you do,” he finally said, to Will. 

Will nodded. “I do believe you.” And Alana knew that, whatever horrible, bestial crimes this man had committed, there was the string of Will's empathy between them: it gave Verger a chance to tell his story and to be believed, and Will the information he wanted. This was Will's gift at its finest, and it was _powerful._

Verger was silent for a long time. Alana could see his eye was directed solely at Will. Will did not look away from him. Finally, Verger spoke again. “You're the first person in a long time who's looked at me with anything resembling compassion.” 

“Dr. Lecter has done many horrific things to many people,” Will said quietly. “Too many.” 

“Including yourself,” Verger said, and Will nodded. They looked at each other for a long time. Alana couldn't tell what either of them was thinking or feeling. Will was keeping his face purposefully calm, while Verger's was incapable of any expression at all. 

“The FBI didn't believe you weren't a killer, even though they knew you well,” Verger said quietly. 

“There was DNA evidence in my home and on me,” Will said. “DNA and circumstantial evidence, even when it's weak, is usually enough to convict someone.” 

Verger was silent again, for a while. “We have something in common,” he said quietly. “Dr. Lecter put us both in cages, and we have yet to escape.” He paused. “I will never escape.” 

Will lowered his eyes. That sad, old, haunted look had returned, slipped past his careful control. “Nor will I, I think,” he said. 

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Graham,” Verger said. “And you as well, Dr. Bloom, Miss Lounds,” he added. “I'm tired now. I don't want to speak to you through my computer. Sometimes I must, but I still consider it rude.”

Will rose, and Alana and Freddie followed his lead. “Thank you again, Mr. Verger,” he said. Verger gave the smallest of nods; it was all he was capable of. They left the room, not looking back. 

Alana felt sick and shaken, both from the sight of the mutilated young man and his story. The three of them exited the hospital in silence, saying nothing until they were in the parking lot and out of earshot of anyone who might have been listening. 

“There's one more patient that I suspect has survived an attack from Lecter,” Freddie Lounds said quietly. “The problem is that she's comatose. She's been institutionalized, probably permanently.” 

“What happened to her?” Alana asked, although she really didn't want to know. 

“No one knows for sure. It happened about four years ago: her throat was cut, windpipe nearly severed. A knife was found in her kitchen with only her prints on it. There was a 911 call from her apartment and she was able to receive medical attention, but she has severe brain damage from lack of oxygen. She also barely survived.”

“Who was she?” Alana asked.

“Rebecca Vandermere. Like Verger, she was another wealthy heiress from a prominent family.”

“Was she sent to Lecter by the court system?” Will asked. 

“No,” Freddie said. “That's where she and Verger are different – she was a regular patient. She had a history of severe mental illness, though. The official diagnosis was borderline personality disorder.” 

Will nodded. “And she can't tell us anything at all about the attack.” He paused, rubbing his mouth and chin thoughtfully. “Do the police think it was a suicide attempt?” 

“Yes,” Freddie said. “They found a few things that were off, but no conclusive evidence that it was anything but a suicide attempt.” 

They were standing in front of Freddie's Rolls-Royce. They climbed in to continue their conversation: Freddie, again, in the front seat, and Will and Alana in the back. 

“What was inconsistent about the Vandermere scene?” Will asked. 

“Little things: her front door was unlocked. Her private elevator was on the first floor, not the third where her loft was, as if someone had used it to go down to the ground floor. No note. And suicides don't usually cut their own throats, especially as deeply as she was supposed to have done.”

“What about the 911 call?”

“The police believe Vandermere made it. There was a trail of blood along the floor, leading from the kitchen to the phone in her living room.”

“Strange for someone to cut their own throat so severely, then to call 911,” Will said.

“Exactly,” Freddie replied. 

“Any security camera footage?” Will asked. 

“No. There was no security. Her parents owned the building.” 

“So what she and Verger have in common is that they were both Hannibal's patients and they both survived brutal injuries,” Alana said. “And they were both wealthy.”

“And her attack was made to look like a suicide attempt, while Verger's was made to look like an accident,” Will said. He sighed. “I would love to know why he attacked her, but she can't tell us. I'm amazed she survived. It seems strange for Lecter to have two victims live, especially since he's such a skilled killer. It seems...sloppy, somehow.”

Alana answered him. “Verger was right when he said it was a miracle he survived. He's a high-level quadriplegic. Hannibal broke his neck. Maybe he didn't mean for him to survive.” 

Will nodded. “I'm thinking that, too, now that I've seen him.” He bent over, hands steepled in front of his mouth. “Why wouldn't he make sure they were dead?” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Especially Verger – he can still speak, unlike Rebecca Vandermere. He told the police what happened.” He sat up. “The only thing I can think of is that, somehow, he didn't have time to make sure they were dead. He had to leave the scenes quickly.” 

Freddie nodded. She was silent for a while before she spoke. “Have you considered the possibility that there's a specific reason why he attacked these three patients in particular? Benjamin Raspail was gay, and so is Mason Verger.”

Will shook his head. “They're not hate crimes. Lecter doesn't care that they were gay. Hell, Lecter himself might be gay, for all we know.”

“I've only seen him with women,” Alana said. 

Will shrugged. “Doesn't mean much. He's a masquerader, remember? He's adept at playing whatever role he needs to. Verger definitely believed Lecter was at least open to the possibility of sex with him. Anyway, no, Lecter didn't attack his patients because they were gay. The Chesapeake Ripper has killed men and women of all different races. He's killed young people and older people. He's killed patients and strangers. He doesn't have a typical victim, like most serial killers.” Will paused for a while, thinking deeply. “He kills because he enjoys it. He tried to kill Mason Verger because it amused him. He went to his house with that in mind – that's why he had the drugs. I think he changed his plans when he got there, but Lecter's adaptable, that's part of his profile. That's what makes him so skilled. The Chesapeake Ripper doesn't have an M.O. besides theatrics and the organ removal.” 

“He didn't make an attempt to remove any of Verger's organs,” Freddie said. 

“I don't think he planned on making Verger a Ripper victim. He just wanted to kill him for fun, for kicks.” Will paused. “It's like the Chesapeake Ripper is a killing _personality_ of his. Sometimes he commits murders that fit the profile – the sounders – and we know that those are Ripper murders. Other times, he kills to experiment, to have fun, for curiosity.”

“The copycat murders,” Freddie said. 

Will nodded. “And others,” he said. “We've only touched the surface of how many people he's killed. He's been killing a lot longer than five years.” He looked directly at Freddie. “I know I don't have any right to order you to do anything, but I suggest you stop digging. This is getting too dangerous. If Lecter gets wind that we talked to Verger, he'll know we suspect him of more than just the copycat murders.”

Alana thought of Miriam Lass, the bright trainee that Hannibal had murdered. Alana had worked with her only briefly, but thought she was promising. Now she knew Miriam must have suffered a terrible death at Hannibal's hands: she knew he had kept her alive long enough to make that recording for Jack, and she had sounded terrified, knowing she was going to die horribly and not being able to do anything about it. Alana couldn't say she liked Freddie, exactly, but she certainly didn't want her dead, and especially to suffer as Hannibal's other victims had suffered. 

Freddie nodded. “I'm done.” 

“We are, too,” Will said. “This is up to the FBI now. I've got enough evidence to implicate Lecter, if I'm arrested again, but I'm not digging any deeper, either. I'm not going to risk myself, or Alana especially, to do Jack's job for him.” 

Will thanked Freddie for all her help, and they parted. Alana drove home, Will silent in the passenger seat. She knew he'd promised himself he wouldn't dig any more, but she wasn't sure if that was a promise he'd be able to keep. 

 

Alana was at work on Monday when Will called her during her office hours. “Hey,” she said as she picked up the phone. “What's going on?”

“We got him.” There was a strange tone in Will's voice, something she didn't immediately recognize. It took her a moment to realize he was excited.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you talk? Are you alone?”

“Yeah, I'm in my office. No one can hear us.” 

“Okay,” Will said. “I got an email this morning from Mason Verger. Hold on, I'll read it to you.” There was a pause. _“Dear Mr. Graham, Thank you for listening to my story with an open mind, and thank you for believing me. Few people do. I know you know how that feels. I'm pleased that you were smart enough to follow my trail. Here is your reward. I can't use it, but perhaps you can. Good luck to you. Sincerely, M. Verger.”_ He paused again. “There's a P.S: _Miss Lounds does not have this information. I saved it for you._ ” Will paused again, briefly. “There was a zip file at the bottom of the email. I opened it, and...Alana, Lecter recorded almost all of my sessions with him. Verger also sent me the session recording where Lecter killed Raspail.”

“What?!”

“Lecter murdered Raspail _during_ a session. Raspail was talking about his boyfriend and another man, and then there was a muffled scream, and then silence. Lecter killed him right then and there, literally mid-sentence. I couldn't tell what, if anything, set him off, but it's all on the recording.”

“How did Verger get this?” she asked. 

“Lecter used a digital recorder to record the sessions, and then he must have uploaded the recordings to his home computer since we know he doesn't have one in his office. Verger must have hacked it – or paid someone good to do it, more likely, since he's got the money. Whoever hacked Lecter's computer broke the firewall or encryption he had protecting the files, and got access to everything. There's even more I haven't listened to yet; Verger sent me tons of stuff.”

“Will. You're sure this is real? You sure those files haven't been tampered with?”

“It's his fucking voice, Alana. And mine. I remember the sessions.” He paused. “Verger sent me more: the other half of the security footage from his house the night Lecter came over and tried to kill him. It's date- and time-stamped. You can see Lecter getting into his car and driving off. There's no question that he was there the night Verger was attacked.” 

“He had to have given that to the police,” Alana said. 

“The police didn't believe him! They saw him as a drug addict and a child molester, just like everyone was so fast to believe I was a serial killer because I was a unstable freak. Rebecca Vandermere had probably threatened suicide loads of times, so no one was surprised when it looked like she'd done it. Lecter played into those assumptions when he did what he did to us. It's the oldest trick in the book – attack people who aren't believable or reliable or normal and your lawyer can tear them apart, _if_ you're ever brought up on charges.”

“That's why he only attacks vulnerable patients.”

“Exactly. If the patients survive the attacks, no one believes them, because they're crazy people. They're delusional. Lecter can paint them that way. That's what he did to me, and everyone believed him.” 

 

Over the next few days, Alana listened to the recordings of Will's sessions with Hannibal. It was very difficult for her. She was aware of every ethical rule Hannibal broke, every time Will cried out for help and Hannibal ignored him, changing the subject to Garrett Jacob Hobbs or whatever killer Jack had Will trailing that week. _This was not what I sent Will in for,_ Alana kept thinking, and she was constantly reminded of their utter failure – hers, Jack's, and Hannibal's – to determine what was best for Will when he wasn't able to make rational decisions about his situation. 

When she heard Will make a comment about Hannibal smelling him, she threw the headphones off and started yelling. “He fucking knew!” She was on her feet before she realized it. 

She had startled Will, who was reading on the sofa near her. “What did he know?” he asked. 

“Hannibal smelled encephalitis on you. He has this ability to diagnose physical illness by smell – he was famous for it at Johns Hopkins.” 

“He can diagnose by smell?” Will asked incredulously. 

Alana nodded. “His sense of smell is like your empathy – it's incredibly well-developed, much past normal range.” She was pacing now, trying to contain her anger. “He _knew,_ Will – a month before he took you in for the brain scan. He knew as soon as you started sleepwalking. And he did nothing.”

Will lowered his eyes, thinking. “He wanted to see what would happen,” he said, looking up at her. “That was his motive with everything he did with me – he wanted to see what would happen.” 

“He was putting you in danger. You could have been killed out on one of your sleepwalking trips. You could have had a fatal seizure. You could have ended up with brain damage.” 

“I could have _actually_ killed someone,” Will said ironically. “That probably would have excited him more than anything, though. He wanted me to be a killer.” 

Alana shook her head. “There's more. He was trying to get rid of you, too. He was attracted to you, and yet he knew you were dangerous to him.” Her mind flashed back to a conversation she'd had with Hannibal in his kitchen about Miriam Lass – the woman had been on her mind constantly since the visit with Verger. “I told him Jack was grooming you to catch the Ripper – to catch _him._ ” The impact of what she'd said hit her – had Hannibal been planning to frame Will at all before she'd said that? 

She put her hand on her forehead. “I was stupid, Will – I told him that, and that's when he started planning to set you up.”

Will shook his head vehemently. “Alana, there's no evidence to support that. This wasn't your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I played a role in this. I gave you to him as a patient, and I told him FBI business.” 

“So did I!” Will had put his book aside and was sitting up now. “You can hear it all on those recordings – I told him about the cases. I gave him the information he used to commit the copycat murders. I broke the rules, too.” He stood and grasped her arms. “You couldn't possibly have known. I don't want you to feel guilty.”

“But I do!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I do, and nothing you can say can change that. I know you forgive me, but I can't forgive myself. I can try to rationalize it, but I don't _feel_ it. I feel like an idiot. I've known Hannibal for _ten years_ and I never suspected _anything._ You had him figured out in a few months.”

“It's my job to figure people out.”

“It's mine, too!” she yelled. “I'm a fucking psychiatrist!” She wrenched herself out of Will's grasp and started pacing again. Dimly, she was aware she was taking out her anger at herself on him. 

Will was silent for a while, just staring at her. “I don't know why you're so determined to blame yourself,” he finally said. He picked up his book. “I'm going upstairs. Join me whenever you're ready.” 

“I'm sorry,” she said, not looking at him. “For everything.”

“I've already told you I forgive you,” he said quietly. Alana heard him leave the room, the tread of his feet on the floor and then up the stairs. She wasn't aware he had stopped until she heard him speak. “I told Freddie to stop digging because it was dangerous. I think the same has to be true for us, too.”

Alana turned and looked at him. The haunted, sad look had returned to his face. He turned away from her and went upstairs. Alana didn't follow him for a long time.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

It was Wednesday, one of Alana's days off, and she and Will were eating dinner together. She had spent a few hours that day baking beer cupcakes using a recipe she'd found online, and she was eager to try them when dinner was over. 

As they were eating, they heard the unmistakable sound of a car in the driveway. Alana gestured to Will to stay seated while she went to the front window and peered out. It was a black SUV with tinted windows – FBI. She watched as the front doors of the car opened, and she saw Jack Crawford climb out of the driver's seat. Her heart sank and a vague feeling of nausea seized her. “It's Jack,” she said to Will. 

Will sat up straighter. “How many agents?”

She glanced out the window again. “Just one other. I don't know her.” 

Will nodded. “He's not expecting a fight.” 

Alana turned and ran to him. “Will --” she said, too frightened to go on. He stood up and ran his fingers lovingly through her hair. “It's okay,” he said. “It'll be okay. I love you.” 

“I love you.” She held both his cheeks in her hands and kissed him tenderly. Then, before she was aware of herself, her arms were wrapped around Will and his arms were around her and they were embracing, holding onto each other so tightly that she felt she could never let him go, not even if Jack and the other agent tried to force them apart. 

There was the knock at the door they were waiting for. The dogs made a little noise, but quickly quieted. “Will, Alana, it's Jack,” they heard him say on the other side of the door. 

Alana knew her gun was in her purse. It wasn't far away. _No, I can't think like that. Not yet._

“I'll answer it,” Will murmured in her ear. “I'll face him like a man. I'm not running. I'm not scared any more.” 

She broke their embrace – it made her heart ache to do it – and looked into his eyes. He was calm. “If they want to take me,” he said, “let them take me. Don't try to stop them.”

_He knew,_ she thought. _He knew what I had been thinking, because he knows me better than anyone else._ She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. He caressed her cheek one last time, and then went to the door and opened it. “Jack,” he said, his voice even. 

“Will,” Jack said, nodding his head in acknowledgment. “Where's Alana?”

“I'm here,” Alana said, stepping forward and grasping Will's hand. She slid herself in front of Will protectively, just enough to let Jack know where she stood. 

Jack must have keyed into her body language. “I'm not here to arrest you,” he said to Will. 

“Why are you here then?” Will asked. Alana could hear that he was trying to keep his voice even, but she could hear the notes of anger in his voice – Jack's betrayal still smarted. 

“I want you to come to Quantico,” Jack said. “Both of you.” 

“Will Dr. Lecter be there?” Will asked. 

“No,” Jack said. “This is about him.” 

Jack and the other agent waited outside while Will and Alana cleared up their dinner and put on their shoes and jackets. Alana made sure to grab her purse, her gun still concealed inside. They sat together in the backseat of the SUV as it circled out of her driveway, away from the house and towards the road. Will reached for Alana's hand, and she grasped it, squeezing back. 

Jack, Alana, and Will did not speak to each other again until they were in a secure conference room in Quantico. The female agent that had accompanied them took a seat, and another man came in. Alana didn't know him, either. 

Will and Alana took two open seats next to each other, while Jack took the seat on the other side of the table, opposite Will. The other two agents sat to Jack's left. No one sat at the head of the table; Alana didn't quite know what to make of this, but her focus was mainly on Jack. He looked thinner, pale, and tired, just as she'd last seen him. 

The man who sat next to Jack spoke. “Mr. Graham, Dr. Bloom, I'm Deputy Director Michael McClellan,” he continued, “and this is my colleague, Deputy Director Angela Sherman.”

“You're FBI police,” Will said to them, “and that means you're investigating Lecter.” 

“You're a hard man to fool, Mr. Graham,” Sherman said, a note of admiration in her voice.

“Lecter fooled me, and Alana, and Jack,” Will said. “He's a formidable opponent.” 

Alana watched the conversation silently. Will was being cautious; she noticed his body was tense. Jack was leaning forward in his chair, his fingers steepled, looking at Will. 

Sherman spoke, and Alana turned her head towards her. “Agent Crawford brought me the evidence that Dr. Bloom delivered, and we” – she indicated herself and McClellan – “not the BAU, have conducted our own investigation of the murders you have been accused of committing. Our official opinion is that the evidence you provided is legitimate and real, has not been tampered with or falsified in any way, and therefore Dr. Lecter would, at least, have motive for framing you for the copycat murders.” 

Will looked pointedly at Jack. “But you still aren't sure, yourself,” Will said to him. 

“This investigation is out of my hands,” he said. _Cheap answer,_ Alana thought. 

McClellan spoke next. “Since we concluded that Dr. Lecter, who serves as a consultant, was possibly involved in a criminal action against a FBI employee, the investigation has been moved out of the BAU and into our department. This has become an internal investigation, conducted with the utmost secrecy because of the possibility that there is an extremely violent and dangerous criminal currently within the walls of the FBI,” he said. 

“How many people know?” Will asked.

“Very few outside this room,” he replied. 

“It's been more than a year and a half since I was arrested,” Will said, “and two months since Alana delivered my evidence to Quantico. Why is Lecter finally under enough suspicion to warrant closed-door meetings now?” 

“Dr. Lecter's psychiatrist is missing,” Jack said. “Her colleagues are very concerned about her, since she was attacked several years ago by a violent patient.”

“A violent patient that Lecter referred to her,” Will said quietly. 

Jack nodded. “Her disappearance is the latest in a string of suspicious events involving Dr. Lecter.” He paused for a moment. “We would be very appreciative if you shared the results of your investigation of Dr. Lecter.” 

Alana glanced at Will. He was looking right at Jack, and he was _angry._ He swallowed hard. “Can I speak to Agent Crawford alone, please?” he asked McClellan and Sherman. Alana wasn't sure if they would go, but then she remembered that Will was no longer an FBI employee and was within his right to ask them to leave, or refuse to cooperate at all. 

McClellan nodded to Sherman, and they both rose and headed towards the door. Alana rose from her chair as well, but Will grasped her arm. “No,” he said to her. “Stay.” 

Alana nodded and resumed her seat next to Will. He was looking directly at Jack again. Once the door closed, Will spoke. “Am I working for you again, Jack?” he asked testily. “Are you now accepting possible serial killers into the hallowed ranks of the FBI?” 

Jack sighed. “I understand you're upset, Will --”

“I'm _upset?_ I'm a lot more than upset. 'Upset' is a conservative estimate of how I feel.” He sat back in his chair. “I told you _a year and a half ago_ that Lecter was a serial killer and that he had framed me. I told you he was dangerous. You didn't believe me, and now more people – I can only guess how many – are dead.” He paused. “Lecter's psychiatrist is dead. There's no point in looking for her. And as for information, I have a lot. But the question is whether or not you'll believe me. You haven't before, so forgive me if I have a reason to doubt you.” 

“I don't doubt you,” Jack said. 

“That's new,” Will replied cuttingly. He was silent for a while, and Jack made no move to speak. Alana could see that Will held all the power in this room, not Jack. Finally, Will shook his head. “When I was locked up, I used to want you to come and see me, but you never came. You always sent Beverly. Why?” 

Jack dropped his eyes. _He's ashamed,_ Alana thought. _Oh my God, Jack Crawford is ashamed._ “Dr. Lecter advised me not to.” 

Will started to laugh bitterly. Then he sighed. “I can't blame you entirely for falling for him. He's good at hoodwinking. A fucking _master,_ actually; it would be admirable if he wasn't such a revolting human being. But tell me something – did you ever think of _why_ I would help you? I was supposed to have been a serial killer, yet I helped you find other serial killers. I saved lives for you, even from a prison cell. And I never asked for immunity, I never asked for any extra privileges, I never asked for anything except that you investigate my case.” 

“Which I did,” Jack said. 

“You investigated Lecter, who had time to scrub up his background and invent a bunch of stories about my unfortunate descent into madness, which he was powerless to prevent. You never investigated me before Abigail's murder. You believed I was guilty, and you never bothered to consider any other possibility. That's bad police work. You should have known better. It took me a year to realize I had to save my own ass and that no one else was going to do it for me. That's why Alana brought you that other evidence – evidence that _I_ paid for.” 

Alana, listening silently, did a double-take: she hadn't known Will had paid Freddie for the evidence she had been able to get, the same evidence Alana had given to Jack. _Of course he paid for it,_ she told herself. _Freddie wouldn't go through all that trouble for free._

Will continued. “What I gave you was breadcrumbs, to remind you that it was your job to follow the trail.” 

“Where was it supposed to lead me?”

“To the truth. To what I've always told you, from the beginning, and which you and Alana and everyone else labeled as a delusion.” He leaned forward, looking only at Jack. “That Lecter is the copycat killer. That he's killed a lot more than five people. And that he is no friend to you.” 

Jack and Will stared at each other across the table. Will had never shared the details of their conversation in Minnesota, when Will had first awoken from his coma and Jack had taken his statement, but Alana knew Jack was remembering it. 

Finally, it was Jack's turn to lean back in his chair. She knew that he was trying mightily to wrest control of the conversation back from Will, but Will held all the cards this time. Jack was silent for a few moments, rubbing his lip thoughtfully. “What do we need to give you in return for your cooperation?” he finally asked. 

“You don't _need_ to give me anything,” Will said, shaking his head. “You know that as well as I. But you _want_ me to cooperate because it will make things a lot easier for you.” 

“Very well, Will. What do you _want?_ " 

“I want your assurance that I will not be rearrested for murders I didn't commit.” 

“We can't prove you didn't commit them.”

Will sighed. “Two of your colleagues just said that they believe I was framed. If you're going to continue to accuse me of murder, go ahead and arrest me again. Take me back to Baltimore. Do what you have to. I've been to hell once, and I learned how to survive it. I almost didn't the first time.” 

Jack was silent, his eyes directly on Will. Will continued, “I rotted in solitary confinement in a maximum security mental facility – a prison – for a year, waiting for someone, anyone, to look at the evidence against me, to ask questions, to do their fucking jobs. Alana was the only person who helped me, even though she didn't believe me, either, not entirely. But she had the sense to recognize that I wasn't a serial killer. What about you? What's your excuse?” 

“There was solid evidence against you --”

“Which I told you from the beginning was planted!” 

“You were sick, Will, you were delusional --”

“I was _not_ delusional!” Will said, slamming his hand on the table angrily. “I _am not_ delusional! If you still believe I'm deranged, if you believe I'm a serial killer, why am I here? Why did you bring me here?” He sighed and leaned back in his chair again, not taking his eyes off Jack. “We're arguing in circles. You know, now, that there's something suspicious about Lecter. That's why Alana and I are here. I don't know how far you and McClellan and Sherman have gotten into your investigation and I don't want to speculate further. I have information that you need. But I also know that I can leave right now and let you figure it out; you only take the best and the brightest, after all, and I've been told enough times that I don't belong in your ranks. The problem is that you're behind me and you know it. You want to get Lecter off the streets soon, and you need me to help you. You need the information I have. But I'm not giving it up on good faith alone this time. Good faith almost got me a life sentence.” 

“We can get a court order,” Jack said. 

“Then get one,” Will said, looking right at him. “Be my guest. Lecter will find out because one of your esteemed agents will blab to him in exchange for some Adderall or Klonopin, and he'll run, and you'll never catch him.” Jack sighed – he knew Will was right. _Hannibal's probably got eyes and ears all over the BAU,_ Alana thought. _Can we even trust anyone here anymore? Zeller gave Freddie information in exchange for sex – what would an agent give Hannibal in exchange for drugs? And Hannibal would be generous, very generous._

Jack was silent for a while. “Okay,” he said. “We won't pursue any criminal charges against you for the copycat murders.”

“Because you believe I did not commit them,” Will insisted.

“Yes,” Jack answered. Alana knew Jack had held this card close to his chest, and Will had forced his hand. 

“Thank you,” Will said. “I'll cooperate. I'll give you what evidence Alana and I have. But my recommendation is to start a rumor around the BAU that you're about to arrest me again. Hell, you can even come to the house and do it, with Lecter in tow, if you have to. His hubris is his weakness. He'll be pleased he's been able to play the game so well, to keep you believing him and not me or Alana, and he'll relax. He'll kill again, and soon. That's how you'll get him. That's the _only_ way you'll get him.” 

“You're willing to do that?” Jack asked. 

“So long as you're not actually arresting me,” Will said. “This is a game to him, and he loves to think he's winning. In spite of everything, he's just like every killer out there – he thinks he's smarter than us.” 

“What if it takes him a while to kill again? Are you willing to wait that long?”

“I've learned how to be patient,” Will said. “I've learned how to wait under the house.” He turned toward Alana, who nodded to him. _What has to be done has to be done,_ she thought. _It's the only way Will will ever be free. It's the only way we'll ever be safe._

“You can call the other agents back in and tell them what I've offered,” he said to Jack. Jack rose from his chair, walked over to the door, and went outside.

Alana and Will were alone in the conference room. She knew they only had a few seconds before Jack, McClellan, and Sherman came back, and she grasped his hand and squeezed it. He looked at her and she saw the depths of his emotions in his eyes, the wave that hid underneath the still pool that was Will, waiting for the right time to form. They had spent so long in fear that Will would be arrested again. The possibility had haunted her dreams. But the idea of him going willingly, without resistance, as a way to trap Hannibal made her feel powerful. She would have to play the game, too, and perhaps even better than Will. He would be hidden away, but she would be out in the open. 

Jack returned with McClellan and Sherman, and they resumed their seats. Briefly, Jack told them about Will's plan and his offer. They looked at each other, and Alana knew they were silently weighing the option. Finally, Sherman nodded. “If that's what we decide,” she said, “you'll be placed in a safe house. Dr. Bloom cannot accompany you.” 

“I know,” Will said. “But I want her monitored. I want her safe. Lecter _will_ contact her once I'm back in custody.” 

“Then we have an agreement?” Jack asked. 

Will nodded. “I'll give you whatever you want as long as you guarantee – _guarantee_ – Alana's safety.” 

Sherman nodded towards Alana. “Our department, not the BAU, will be in charge of tracking Dr. Lecter and assuring Dr. Bloom's safety. If she gives her consent, Dr. Bloom's movements, as well as her cell phone and email accounts, will be monitored. Lecter will be unaware that she is under surveillance. Do you agree, Dr. Bloom?” 

“I agree,” Alana said. _If all else fails,_ Alana thought, _I've got my gun._

“You'll need your best people tailing Lecter and monitoring Alana,” Will said to McClellan and Sherman. “You need to know who you can trust. He's had two years to learn the FBI's secrets and befriend its agents – and he's got more friends here than just you, Jack. He'll hear if word gets out that he's under suspicion and know if there's anything going on out of the ordinary.” 

“Agreed,” McClellan said. 

Jack sighed – Alana could detect a hint of relief. “Then tell us what you know,” he said to Will. 

Will nodded. “Where you can start is Cassie Boyle's murder. If her murder had happened in this area, and not in Minnesota, who would you think would have done it?” 

Jack rubbed his lip thoughtfully. “The Chesapeake Ripper,” he said. 

Will nodded. “Her murder fits the Ripper's profile, but not Hobbs's. The Ripper is a sadist; Cassie Boyle was alive when she was impaled on those antlers, alive when her lungs were removed. Hobbs would never have done that. He strangled Elise Nichols – not a quick death, exactly, but not a sadistic one. The Ripper takes organs as his trophies and leaves the rest of the body in a purposeful, theatrical display. Hobbs used all parts of his victims as a way of honoring them. We never found their bodies.”

Will paused, gauging Jack's reaction. Jack was listening intently and thoughtfully. 

Will continued. “Cassie Boyle's murder was committed days after Lecter came here for the first time and met us. Did he say anything to you that hinted of his plans, anything that indicated he was particularly interested in the Hobbs case?” 

“He hinted that he knew how to help you understand Hobbs.” 

“He helped, all right,” Will muttered. “After Cassie Boyle's murder, he came to Minnesota, ostensibly to observe me, and became involved in the investigation. We went together to a trailer on one of the sites where Hobbs had worked. That's where I found his work records.”

“Lecter said you made a phone call from the site,” Jack said. “He believed it was the call made to Hobbs's house from the copycat killer.”

“That's a goddamned _lie,”_ Will said viciously. 

“Was Hannibal ever alone in the trailer?” Alana asked. 

“Yes, he was,” Will said. “He dropped some papers while we were removing boxes and I picked them up and put them away. He went back inside for a few minutes while I put the boxes into the trunk of the car.” He paused, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. “Lecter was the one who called Hobbs's house to warn him that I was coming. Hobbs was ready when we arrived – when we drove up, he dragged his wife outside and killed her.” 

“Then you went in, he tried to kill Abigail, and then you killed him,” Jack said. 

“Hobbs never tried to run after he received the call? That's strange,” McClellan said. 

“No, he didn't,” Will answered. “He could have run. He had time. But he decided to kill his wife and daughter instead.” Will fell silent for a while, then continued. “If you believe me, as you once did, the copycat murders were all committed by the same person, the same person that made that phone call to Garret Jacob Hobbs. Cassie Boyle's murder was committed by the Chesapeake Ripper. That means that the copycat and the Ripper are the same person.”

“You believe Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper?” Jack asked.

“Absolutely,” Will said. 

“I do, as well,” Alana added. 

“Where's your evidence?” McClellan asked. 

“We have some,” Will said, “but the connections are tenuous at best. You can try to investigate it, but there might not be much to investigate. It'll likely be very circumstantial. That's why you'll need to catch him in the act. He doesn't leave any DNA at the crime scenes and he has only brief associations with the victims.” 

“Miriam Lass's murder is where you should focus,” Alana said. “She was investigating doctors who had treated Ripper victims. She went to Hannibal's office because he had treated one of the victims when he worked in the ER at Maryland Misericordia. Hannibal killed her, but he was spooked. She got very close, and she was just a trainee. That's why there weren't any sounders for two years.” 

“Has the Ripper been credited with any other murders in the last year and a half?” Will asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “He had a sounder just before Christmas. Three murders, as usual.” 

“Who credited him?”

“Myself and Dr. Lecter.”

“He was consulting on the case?” Will asked. 

“Yes,” Jack said. 

“What was his conclusion? Did he change the profile?” 

“He said he thought the Ripper was younger than the original age, and believed we should expand the search to younger doctors. He also had issues with Miriam's assertion that the Ripper was likely a foreigner.” 

“Of course,” Will said. “That's the main detail that would link him to the murders. He couldn't eliminate the fact that the Ripper was a doctor because the organ removals were done too cleanly for it to be anything but a professional.” Will leaned forward in his chair. “You have to work from the profile we developed without his input. Lecter fits that profile.” 

“Hannibal has also been attacking patients for the past several years,” Alana said. “You'll find more conclusive evidence there. We have evidence that can help – a recording of Hannibal murdering a patient during a session, as well as security camera footage linking Hannibal to an attack on another one of his patients, Mason Verger.” 

Jack, McClellan, and Sherman sat silently. Alana knew they doubted the story – it was close to unbelievable that Hannibal could kill so many, so constantly, and yet avoid suspicion for so long. But there were cracks in his armor, and she and Will had found some of them. An FBI investigation would doubtlessly find more. 

“This is a lot to take in,” Jack finally said. 

“Will is right,” Alana said. “If you don't believe him, believe me. I helped develop the profile for the Chesapeake Ripper. Will and I have been working together on this since he was released. I've seen and heard evidence myself.” She sighed. “Hannibal was my friend. I've known him – or thought I knew him – for ten years. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that he is the killer you're looking for. Will hasn't hoodwinked me or conned me. He's told me the truth, and I believe him.” 

Jack and the other agents were still silent. They weren't skeptical, exactly, since they clearly suspected Hannibal was dangerous, but she knew they still weren't convinced that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper. _They'll find out soon enough,_ she thought, _as soon as they start investigating him._ “Copies of our evidence are in a safety deposit box at my bank,” she said. “You can have what's in there.” 

McClellan and Sherman nodded. Alana gave them her bank information, and then the meeting was completed, with Sherman telling them that she would be in touch soon. 

Jack drove them home from Quantico silently. Alana wanted to ask how Bella was, but she could guess, and she decided to spare Jack the pain of talking about it. She knew Jack was in a lot of pain: not only was his wife dying, but a man whom he had trusted, whom he had probably shared many intimate secrets, had used and betrayed him. 

When they reached Alana's house, Jack got out of the car with them. He extended his hand towards Will, and Will shook his hand. “You were right about me, you know,” Jack said.

“What do you mean?” Will asked. 

“That when I believe I'm right, I don't look at any other possibility,” Jack said. 

“You were right about Abigail,” Will said.

“And I was wrong about you,” Jack said. “Very wrong. And you suffered because of it.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, Will.” 

Will nodded, quietly accepting Jack's apology. Jack shook hands with Alana, and they both watched as he climbed back into his car and drove away, towards home and his dying wife. 

Once Will and Alana were inside, they hugged each other, kissed each other. They were silent for a long time. “How do you feel?” Alana asked him.

“I feel...a lot of things,” he said. 

“Me, too,” she said. She sighed. “There are no guarantees they'll take you back into custody.”

“They'll take me,” he said quietly. “They have to. He has to believe he's won. He has to believe he's still above suspicion.” He broke their embrace and looked at her, cradling the side of her face with his hand. “Promise me that you'll take care of yourself,” he said. “Don't trust the agent they send to you to protect you. Always carry your gun. Never turn your back. And if he comes for you, put him down.” 

“I will,” she said. “I swear it.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

A few days later, Alana received word that Angela Sherman, using her FBI credentials, had gone to the safety deposit box and taken the contents. The next few weeks were uneventful. Beverly called her in concern, saying that rumors were flying around the BAU that some new evidence had been unearthed and Will was about to be arrested again. Alana debated with herself over whether or not to tell Beverly the truth – not because she didn't trust her, but because knowing the truth would require Beverly to hide it from Hannibal as well. Since Beverly was still at the BAU and frequently around Hannibal, knowing the plan would put her at great risk. 

In the end, Alana decided to tell her, with cautions. “I'll put in a bid for an Oscar this year,” Beverly said. 

“Do you think Hannibal knows that we talk?” Alana asked her.

“Hell no,” Beverly said. “As far as he's concerned, I worship the ground Jack walks on. I've never questioned his judgement in front of Dr. Lecter. I've never spoken about Will in front of him.” She paused. “I think he sort of regards me as a nonentity anyway, to be honest. He spends a lot of time with Jack when he's here.” 

“Does he know you used to visit Will when he was in Baltimore?” 

“I don't know. I never saw him, or Dr. Chilton. I was only there about twice a month, usually.” 

At the end of their conversation, Beverly promised to update Alana with any news she heard from the BAU. Most of November passed without any word, and Alana and Will went on with life as usual. They were set to go to her parents' house for Thanksgiving. She had told Will a lot about her parents and brothers, but Will had never met her family. She would be introducing him as her boyfriend. 

On Thanksgiving morning, Alana and Will made sweet potatoes and and a large dish of steamed and seasoned vegetables to take to her parents' house, and Alana baked a carrot cake just for them. In the afternoon, they packed the dishes into the car along with two bottles of wine and set off for Alana's parents' home in Leesburg. 

Leesburg was a small suburb with wealthy residents. Alana had spent her childhood there pleasantly, but had been bored and eager to escape by the time she was a teenager. Will had driven through the town before, as it wasn't far away from his former home in Wolf Trap, but Alana pointed out places that had significance to her, such as the pizza place where she'd gone on her first disastrous date, or the fields where her brothers had played lacrosse. 

Finally, Alana stopped the car in front of a large colonial-style home in a subdivision and parked. “This is it,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

Will looked at the house. “Well, this explains the tattoo and spring break debauchery,” he said. 

Alana shoved him playfully. “Shut up, smart ass. Also, who uses 'debauchery' in an actual sentence?” Will chuckled. Alana pointed to a window on the far left, facing the street. “That was my bedroom. I'll show it to you. My nieces and nephews sleep there now when they visit.” 

They took the dishes out of the car to get them in from the cold, and Alana led the way up the brick walkway to the porch, where she pressed the lit doorbell carefully with her thumb. “No key?” Will asked. “Not for years,” she replied. 

The door opened. “Lana!” her dad exclaimed. Alana had to hold the dish with the sweet potatoes in it with both hands, so she extended her cheek and her dad kissed it. “Dad, this is Will Graham,” she said, nodding towards Will, who was entering the house behind her. 

“Hello, Will,” her father said, extending a hand. Will balanced the dish he was holding carefully in the crook of his arm in order to shake Alana's father's hand. “Hello, Mr. Bloom,” he said. 

“It's Jim,” her father said. “Jim,” Will replied, correcting himself. Alana's father nodded towards the dishes they were carrying. “Take those on into the kitchen,” he told Will. “My wife'll know what to do with them.”

Alana and Will walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, passing the formal dining room with its large mahogany table already set for dinner with sparking crystal and china, and the formal living room with expensive antique furniture and rugs that Alana and her brothers were never allowed to touch as children. 

“Hi everyone,” Alana said cheerily when she entered the kitchen. She turned slightly and nodded towards Will. “This is Will Graham.” Again balancing the dish in the crook of his arm, he extended his hand to the nearest person – Alana's brother Joe's wife, Annie – and Annie merely stared at him, a disgusted look on her face. A few moments passed, and Will lowered his hand and cleared his throat. 

Alana forced a smile. “Mom, where do you want these?” she asked, indicating the dishes she and Will had brought. 

“They hot?” Alana's mother asked from where she was mashing potatoes in a large porcelain bowl. 

“Yeah, they're sweet potatoes and steamed vegetables.” 

“Put them in the oven then,” her mother said, nodding towards a large double oven in the well-appointed kitchen. Will was better able to set the temperature and lower the oven door; he put his dish inside first, and then took Alana's from her hands and set it inside. 

Will walked towards Alana's mother. “It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Bloom,” he said, extending his hand. “You have a beautiful home.”

Alana's mother didn't look at him or acknowledge him. She kept mashing the potatoes. Again, Will lowered his hand after a few moments. 

Alana walked over to him and rubbed his shoulder. “Will, baby, can you get the wine out of the car and bring it in?” she asked. 

“Sure,” he said, and left the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, Alana turned to her mother. “I'd never thought I'd say this to you, Mom, but that was very rude.” 

“Don't lecture me about rudeness, Lana,” she said, not looking at Alana. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

Her mother turned to her angrily. “You bring _him here?!_ ” 

Anger rose in Alana's chest. “He's my best friend, Mom. He's my _boyfriend._ And you knew I was bringing him. Why are you acting this way?”

“What was I going to say?” her mother hissed. 

“You could have said no, if you were going to treat him like this! We could have stayed home!” 

Alana's mother sighed. “Your father wanted you here, since you missed Christmas.”

“But _you_ didn't want me here?”

“Not if you were bringing him.” 

Alana knew that Will would be back any moment with the wine. “I'm not continuing this conversation with you right now.” 

“Typical,” her mother scoffed. 

“Will is here as my guest,” Alana said, fighting to keep her voice even. “I expect you to treat him as such, as you taught me.” 

Will ended the conversation by walking into the kitchen carrying the two bottles of wine from the car. Alana showed him the wine refrigerator under the kitchen counter and he deposited the bottles. 

She took Will into the family room, where her three brothers sat watching the football pre-game show. She could hear their animated conversation as she approached the room, but they went silent when they saw Will. 

“Will, these are my brothers, Jimmy, Joe, and Dan,” she said, nodding towards them. None of her brothers moved from their places on the sofa, none extended their hands towards Will. Alana could have almost found it comical if it wasn't so awful. 

“It's nice to meet you,” Will said politely. “Alana's told me a lot about you.” 

Again, her brothers were silent. “Where's Dad?” she asked with a sigh.

“In his office,” Jimmy, the eldest, said. “You know he doesn't like the noise.” 

“Good,” Alana replied, and taking Will by the hand, she opened her father's office door, which was slightly ajar. “Dad?” she asked as she opened the door a little wider. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. He was on his computer, reading the news. “Leave your coat and things on the sofa with the others,” he said, nodding towards the large leather sofa under a window. Alana shrugged off her coat and laid it down, and placed her purse on top of it. 

“Have you met my sons, Will?” Jim asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Will said. 

“Everyone's been very cold,” Alana said. 

“I'm sorry to hear it,” her father said. “You know, Will,” he continued, “Just between us, Lana has always been the apple of my eye. Of all my children, she's the most like me. That's why I wanted her to be a lawyer, like me – she's got the heart for it.” 

Alana felt tears well up in her eyes at her father's kindness. “Dad, would you mind if Will sat with you for a while? He doesn't like noise much, either. I'd love for you to get acquainted.” Her voice was wavering; she fought to control it. 

“Of course. Lana told me you're an avid fisherman, Will.”

“I used to be,” Will said quietly. The tears that Alana were desperately holding in fell down her cheeks and she wiped them away impatiently. 

Will kissed her softly on her cheek. “Go say hi to your nieces and nephews,” he said. “I'm okay. You can show me around later.” She nodded. Her excitement at Will finally meeting her family had shriveled and died inside of her within the course of a few minutes. 

She left Will in her father's office, and then went upstairs. Her nieces and nephews were up there, clustered around various TVs or playing with tablet computers and toys. They all greeted her warmly, and the little ones told her that they had missed her. Her older nieces were excited to hear she had a boyfriend. 

“Are you going to get married soon?” one of them asked.

“I want to be in your wedding!” another said. 

She laughed and shook her head. “No, I don't think we'll get married soon. Maybe someday, though.” 

“Is your boyfriend nice?”

“He's very nice,” Alana said. 

“Then why don't you want to get married?” 

She laughed again. “We're not ready yet. You need to be ready to get married.” 

“I don't ever want to get married. Weddings are stupid,” her eldest niece said. 

“Is he going to come back for Christmas?” another niece asked. 

Alana's mind briefly flashed to the scene downstairs, her family's cold reaction to Will. She swallowed hard. “I hope so,” she said. 

After she had spent some time with her nieces and nephews, Alana went back downstairs to the kitchen to help set up dinner with her sisters-in-law. She was setting up the dessert plates when her mother happened to come near. “Can I talk with you upstairs?” Alana asked her. 

Her mother sighed. “I'm very busy,” she said.

“I know. I'd still like to talk to you, though. Before dinner.” 

Half an hour later, Alana and her mother were having a heated conversation in her parents' bedroom. “I don't understand why, if you all knew Will was coming, why you couldn't do him the decency of treating him politely,” Alana said. 

“Lana,” her mother said. “ _You_ don't understand. What they've said about him on the talk shows --” 

“The talk shows are bullshit!” she said angrily. “None of those people have any idea what they're talking about! It's all wild speculation to fill time.” 

“He murdered four young girls!”

“He didn't murder _anyone._ I'm sick of people saying that he did.” She sighed. “He was released by a federal judge. The case against him was not properly investigated." 

“Does he even have a job?” her mother asked. 

Alana felt a surge of anger rising in her chest because her mother wasn't listening to her, but she choked it down. “He's working with the FBI on a case, a very important one.”

“Is he being paid for it?”

“No. The murder charges haven't been expunged from his record yet. He wouldn't pass a background check.” 

“So then you are supporting this man.”

Alana raised her head proudly. “Yes, I am,” she said. “I make enough money to support the both of us. My focus is on proving Will's innocence and guiding his recovery.” 

“Recovery from what? Don't tell me he was an addict, too!”

“His recovery from being in solitary confinement at a maximum security mental hospital for a year, Mom! You have no idea what he's been through or what they did to him there!” 

“He's a crazy person, Lana!”

“He is not crazy!” She rubbed her forehead, trying to keep her temper. “Mom, I'm an adult, okay? I'm thirty-six years old. I'm a _doctor._ I'm more than capable of making decisions for myself.” 

“I would have thought you would have better judgment,” her mother said.

“It's not _my_ judgment that's the problem,” Alana said, unable to control her anger. She turned away from her mother. “I don't want to talk about this any more. I don't want Will to hear us.” 

“What, is he too fragile for the truth?” her mother spat back. 

“No, he's well aware of his situation,” Alana said, turning around and facing her. “He's reminded of it all the time by people like you.” 

She went downstairs again, her stomach churning with rage. She had half a mind to tell Will she wanted to go home. She was walking towards her father's office when she heard his and Will's voices. She stopped, listening by the door. 

“Alana's been very generous,” she heard Will say. “I could never hope to repay her for all she'd done for me.” He paused for a few moments. “We were friends before...all this happened. She was the only one who stuck by me. She came every week to see me when I was in Baltimore State Hospital, to make sure I was okay. She was what kept me alive there.”

Alana began to cry, hearing the immense sadness and shame in his voice; she placed a hand over her mouth to stifle any noise. 

“You had no hope for yourself?” her father asked. 

“No, sir. I did, at first, but after a year it was gone.” 

Alana still had a hand over her mouth. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. 

“I would never hurt her,” Will said. “If that's what you and her wife are worried about, there's no need --” 

“I'm not worried about it,” her father said. “I've worked with a lot of guilty men and women, Will. I knew they were guilty, but it was my job to defend them in whatever way I could. And I don't see in you what I saw in them.” 

There was silence between them. “Thank you, sir,” Will said quietly. 

“Do you love my daughter?” her father asked. 

“More than anyone, sir. If I could marry her, I would. But I can't. My life's too unstable. She needs someone...else.” 

“You could let Lana be the judge of that.” 

Alana leaned her head back against the wall. She knew Will loved her, but to know, now, that Will was feeling the same things she felt, dreaming of a future together with her...

_Why would it be wrong for us to get married?_ she thought. _Really? What's standing in our way? The FBI believes Will. They're not going to prosecute him again. We can plan for our future._

They'd spent so many months focused on keeping Will out of prison, about proving that Hannibal was a murderer...and now, they had. There was nothing standing in their way any more. 

Will's reply brought her out of her reverie. “I know what Alana wants,” Will said. “But I can't marry her.” He sighed. “I don't have anything left. I've lost everything – my home, my car, my money, my ability to work. I can't be the kind of husband she needs...the kind she deserves.” 

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Not wanting to answer any awkward questions, she quickly wiped away her tears and went into the office. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” her father said. He must have noticed her face, but he didn't say anything. “Will and I were just getting acquainted.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice yet. She stood beside Will's chair, and he grasped her hand. “You're upset,” he whispered. 

“I'm fine, baby,” she said. She caressed his hair affectionately. “Dinner's almost ready.”

“Did you need any help?”

“No, we're okay. You stay here and talk.” She looked at her father, who nodded toward her. 

Half an hour later, the family was assembled in the dining room. Samantha, Jimmy's wife, at least had the decency to hold Will's hand during the prayer, but otherwise, most of Alana's family seemed to be dealing with the situation by pretending he wasn't there. No one tried to make conversation with him, or asked him about anything. Will kept quiet, staring down at his plate and eating small amounts of his food. Alana had lost her appetite as well. 

After dinner, Alana and Will sat down together on one of the sofas in the family room. A football game was on, but none of Alana's brothers came in to watch it – an unusual occurrence. She could hear lowered voices from the dining room and living room. 

Three of her nieces and nephews – they were all her brother Dan's kids – came into the room. “Auntie Lana?” her nephew asked. “Can we play the Wii?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” she answered. “We're not watching the game.” 

The kids were messing around with the remote, trying to find the right setting on the TV, when Dan came into the family room. “Go play upstairs,” he ordered the kids. They protested. 

“Dan, it's okay,” Alana said. “They're not bothering us.”

“Don't tell me how to raise my kids,” he snapped. 

Alana lost it. Before she could stop herself, she was on her feet. She felt, distantly, Will tugging on her arm, but she was too far gone. “What the hell is wrong with all of you?” she shouted. “Dad's the only one who's said a word to Will all night!”

“Go upstairs,” Dan told his children again, and they left, looking scared. 

Hearing Alana, Jimmy and Joe came into the family room as well, followed by their wives and Alana's parents. “Lana, this isn't the time or place for this,” Joe said.

“Stop lecturing me about what's appropriate,” Alana snapped. “I'm the psychiatrist, not you. I want to know why you've all been ignoring my boyfriend like he's not here.”

It amazed her that a room with so many people in it could be so silent. Most of her family lowered their eyes. Annie and Alana's mother looked angry. Alana waited for an answer, any answer, but she received none. 

Will had risen from where he sat on the sofa and had grabbed her arm more forcefully. “Alana, don't fight,” he murmured. “They're your family.” 

She sighed. “Will and I are leaving, all right?” she said. “We won't be inflicting our company on you any longer. You don't have to worry about your children.” She tugged on Will's arm. “Come on, baby. Let's go home,” she said. 

Will looked at her mother. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Bloom,” he said. “It was nice to meet you all.” There was no response except lowered eyes and glowers. Her family cleared a path to let her and Will through, and their lack of protest at her leaving only steeled her heart more. 

Alana Bloom had always been a woman of her word. It was something she had inherited from her father. She didn't make threats. She did exactly what she said she would do: nothing more, and nothing less. Will was the same. Perhaps that was another reason why she loved him so much. 

Alana went into her father's office to grab her purse and coat. Her father followed her in. “Lana, don't go,” he said, and the sad desperation in his voice made her cry again. She hugged him. “Thank you for being kind to Will,” she whispered to him. “It means so much to me.” 

“I trust you, sweetheart,” he said, touching his face with his aging hand. “He's got to be a good man for you to love him so much.”

“He is,” she said. “He's like you. I hope you can spend some more time together someday.” 

Her father reached over and shook Will's hand. “It was good to meet you, Will,” he said. 

“Thank you, Jim,” Will said. “It was good to meet you, too.” Alana saw there was much unsaid between the two men. They held hands a few moments longer than normal, just looking at each other, until Alana's father broke the handshake. 

“Listen, I'll talk to your mother about Christmas,” he said, lowering his voice and turning towards his daughter. 

“It's okay, Dad,” Alana said. “I'm not putting Will though this again.” 

Together, she and Will left the house. Since Alana couldn't stop crying, Will began the drive home, but after a few minutes, he pulled over into a pharmacy parking lot. He sat with his hands gripping the wheel while Alana sobbed beside him. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't expect this from them.” 

“It's not your fault,” he murmured, still staring straight ahead. “Your dad was nice to me. He really was.”

“But no one else was,” Alana said. 

A long silence settled between them, punctuated by Alana's sobs. Will took one of her hands and held it, but let her cry, which she was grateful for. 

Finally, when her tears had slowed, she spoke to him. “Sometimes I think about just running away, you know? Just you and I. We can leave here, buy a spread someplace isolated and start over.”

Alana saw then that Will was crying, too. Tears were coursing silently down his cheeks. “We can't.”

“Who says?” she asked. “Let's disappear, Will. We won't have to worry about Hannibal, about Jack, about any of this. Nothing's stopping us. We're free. We'll go somewhere where no one will recognize you, where you can walk with your head held high.” 

Alana must have hit something raw inside Will, because he broke down and sobbed. She unbuckled her seatbelt and embraced him. The sight of Will breaking like this, which he allowed himself to do so rarely, shattered something inside of her. She buried her face in his neck and stroked his hair. “This isn't right,” he said. “You should have had a nice dinner with your family, and I ruined it.”

Alana leaned back from him and cradled his face in her hands. “You did _not_ ruin it,” she said. “They did. You are my friend – my boyfriend – and they disrespected you. And the worst part about it was that they weren't even sorry.” His comment had rekindled the anger inside of her. “I grew up with my mother entertaining lawyers, politicians, businessmen – and she would have _never_ let me treat a guest the way she treated you.” 

Will shook his head. “I'm not any of those things, Alana. I'm an accused serial killer. They think you're insane for dating me.”

“Then let them think that!” she shouted. “I'm past caring what they think! I'm past caring what anyone else thinks about our relationship!” 

Another long silence settled over them again. Eventually, wordlessly, Will started the car and they drove back home.

As they drove, Alana was deep in thought. She had come to Leesburg tonight looking for approval – from her parents, and from her brothers. While her father had handled things well, everyone else hadn't, but she found that their approval, in truth, didn't really matter to her. She loved her family. She had always been close to her parents. But something had driven her away when she was a teenager: she had never come home for more than a few months after she graduated from the University of Virginia. She had gone straight on to Johns Hopkins, and lived a happy life in Baltimore with her friends. Her parents' home, with its antiques and opulent comforts, no longer seemed like a home to her. It was an artifice. 

She was an adult now, and she had made a life for herself. Finally, after long years of waiting and watching while her friends and colleagues were married and had children, she'd found a man to share that life with her. He wasn't a perfect man. He was wounded. He struggled. But she saw past his poverty and his reputation and she saw the man within, the man who was kind to children and animals and made her laugh and worshiped the ground she walked on (even though she hated it sometimes) and bled so much for the rest of the world that he'd had to cut himself off from other people to protect himself. 

Will had begged her not to fight with her family _because_ they were her family. Will had run away from his family, too, but for a completely different reason. He'd had to watch as his stepmother drove a wedge between himself and his father, the one person he'd loved in the world, and poisoned his younger brothers against him. How many sad Christmases and Thanksgivings had he spent alone, never knowing what it was to feel welcome and wanted somewhere, by someone? 

When they arrived home, Alana reheated the leftover breaded fish, rice, and vegetables Will had made the night before, while he took out the dogs. She cut them both generous slices of carrot cake, and they went upstairs with the dogs and their food. After they ate, they made love, a Christmas movie blaring on the TV in the background. After a while, Will fell asleep next to her, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, but she was awake long into the night, still thinking silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be another doozy, so it might not come out until after Thanksgiving. I have a one-shot waiting in the wings to tide you over until then. Thanks for all your support!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

McClellan contacted Will the week after Thanksgiving – the FBI police had been watching Hannibal for several weeks, and he had made no moves out of the ordinary. They had continued to investigate him with the evidence taken from Alana's safety-deposit box, and they felt certain that he had committed Raspail's murder, and very likely several more. But they knew they would need more evidence in order to charge him as the Ripper, so they were going to up the ante and arrest Will. 

McClellan was unable to tell them precisely when it would happen, but urged Will to make preparations. He would be allowed to take some of his clothes and whatever items might help to make him comfortable in hiding. Will asked if he could take his laptop to continue his work, and McClellan agreed. He also agreed to let Will and Alana keep in contact by cell phone. Both of them would be issued secured cell phones, since Alana's regular cell phone accounts and work and personal email accounts would be monitored once Will was in custody. Alana didn't know if this was normal procedure, but the FBI seemed eager to please Will – likely because they needed his cooperation, and likely because they were eager to avoid a lawsuit. 

While she waited, Alana resumed her life as usual; the end of the semester was coming, which was always a busy time, and she was spending a lot of time at work finishing her grading and finalizing her research for publication. Her tenure review was in the spring, and she needed to be prepared. She tried to remain focused, but she was anxious knowing that the FBI would be coming for Will at any time, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. 

She was also dreading their separation. They hadn't been apart for a single night since his release from Baltimore State Hospital nearly nine months earlier. She was used to coming home from work and seeing Will, used to knowing he was in the same house with her even if they were doing different things. She'd been in relationships before where she had craved space and time away from her partner, but it was different with Will. She enjoyed being around him: she loved him as her lover, but also as her friend. Now they would be separated again, possibly for weeks or even months. 

At the tail end of the semester, when Alana was in her office, Beverly called with the news: she, Jack, and several other agents from the BAU, with Hannibal in tow, would be on their way to arrest Will and take him to Quantico. “You can't be there,” Beverly insisted when Alana said she was on her way back home immediately.

“Why not?” Alana asked.

“Dr. Lecter has to believe this is happening for real,” Beverly said. “That means that I never called you.” 

“Because we don't talk,” Alana said. She sunk back into her desk chair. “Does Will know?”

“Yeah,” Beverly said. “McClellan called him and told him where to leave his bag, so that the agent that comes by to pick it up will know where it is.” 

“Where are they taking him?” 

“I don't know,” Beverly answered. She sighed. “Listen, I have to go. I'm calling you from a stall in the ladies' room. I'll try to call you again as soon as I can.” 

“Okay,” Alana said. “Thank you for calling, Beverly. I mean it.”

“It's no problem. I'll keep you posted.” 

After she hung up with Beverly, Alana leaned back in her chair and watched the snow fall outside her office window. _I didn't get to say goodbye,_ she thought. She had given Will a quick kiss this morning as he had handed her her travel mug with her coffee, and she hadn't looked back as she told him she would call later that afternoon. _He's okay,_ she kept telling herself. _This isn't real. He's not going back to Chilton's. Wherever they take him, he won't be hurt._ She tried to focus back on her work, but she found that she couldn't. 

She came home as soon as she could to an empty house and upset dogs. She sat and soothed them, and then cleaned up the mess they had made. There was an old-fashioned flip cell phone on the kitchen counter, and Will's bag was gone, along with his laptop. 

The evening passed. Alana, too upset to work, spent it in front of the TV with the dogs. Will's arrest was on the news, along with a mugshot of him taken that morning. She watched Jack make a short statement to the press: he didn't give much information, and evaded the reporters' questions about new evidence pointing to Will's guilt, only stating that the evidence would not yet be made public. 

Several of Alana's friends, along with her father, called and texted her. She texted back her friends, assuring them that she was all right but couldn't talk right now, and then she called her father. She knew her phone was being monitored now, and so she couldn't tell her father the truth even though she desperately wanted to. Her father offered to help with Will's defense, and she had played along, her heart aching every step of the way. She cried when she hung up with him. She'd known all along she would have to play this game, but she had underestimated how much it would hurt her to do it. 

Finally, just before midnight, her FBI-issued phone rang. Alana raced to the kitchen counter to retrieve it. The number came up on her caller ID as “Blocked,” but she picked up anyway, hoping it was Will.

“Hi, it's me,” he said, though Alana had recognized his voice from the monosyllable. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her hands were trembling and she sat down on the sofa.

“I'm okay. McClellan called me and warned me just before everyone left Quantico, so that I could be ready.” 

“Beverly told me. Where are you?”

“I'm in Baltimore. They brought Lecter to your place to make the arrest, and then made a show of processing me in Quantico for him. Officially, I'm in Devens. It's a federal prison hospital in Harvard, Massachusetts. My name and picture will be added to the registry tonight, in case Lecter or the press go snooping, but no one will have visitors' access to me, not even you. The FBI has me up in an apartment here. I'm under guard but Jack and Angela insisted I'm not arrested. I just have to stay put.” 

“How's your apartment? Do you have food?”

“I'm okay. I really am. Don't worry about me.” 

Alana found she had tears in her eyes. “Can I see you soon?” She paused and ran a hand through her hair. “I know it's a stupid question, but I just want to make sure you're all right.” 

He sighed. “I don't know if it's a good idea to come here. And I'm okay. I'm looking out the window of my bedroom right now. I can see the city.” 

Alana's chest ached. She was crying now – she tried to control it, but Will knew. “Please don't cry,” he said. “It'll be over soon.”

“I didn't expect to feel like this,” she said, wiping away her tears. 

“I know. I don't think it's hit me yet, not really. Today's been so intense I haven't had the time to think.” 

“Do you need to get off the phone?” she asked.

“I don't think so. There's an agent here, but he's downstairs.”

“Then keep talking to me. Please. Tell me what happened.” 

And he did. Will told her that Hannibal had come with Beverly and Jack and the other agents to make the arrest. Jack had been an excellent actor. Hannibal had kept his emotions closely guarded, but Will had noticed he was looking at him a lot. They hadn't spoken together that day at all; Will had been driven to Quantico in a separate car so that Angela Sherman could inform him about their plans. 

The FBI had processed Will in Quantico and taken the mugshot Alana had seen on the evening news. While Jack was talking to the press, Will had been ushered into the back of a transport van with FBI police and driven to the safe house in Baltimore. “And all the time they were doing this,” Will said, “I kept thinking about how they must have spent a fortune on it. It was pure theater.”

“I suppose they think they need to, to catch Hannibal.” 

Will sighed. “They have next to no evidence. All they've got is the recording of Raspail's murder, which any decent lawyer can explain away. Even if they do catch him in the act, it's going to be difficult to prosecute him.”

“One murder's enough,” Alana said. Will was silent. She knew he was thinking about who Hannibal's next victim would be – because there _would_ be a next one. There had to be. 

“You'll be careful, won't you?” he finally asked. “I know you've got agents with you, and I know you have your gun, but I'm worried.”

“I'll be fine, baby,” she said gently. 

“I shouldn't have agreed to this,” he said. “It was...impulsive. Not smart.” 

“You did the right thing. If Jack didn't believe you before, he believed you then. You offered up your own freedom in order to catch the man who did this to you.”

“Cooperation hasn't earned me much in the past,” Will said quietly.

“You're worried that this is an actual arrest,” Alana said. 

“It was a convincing bit of theater today,” he said. 

“You've spent a long time in fear. You've gotten used to it. You've forgotten how to feel safe.” 

He was silent again, for a long time. “I only feel safe when we're together,” he said.

Tears sprang to Alana's eyes. It must have taken a lot for him to admit that – and she was grateful. “Me too,” she whispered. “And if this is what it takes for us to feel safe forever, then so be it.” 

“I can't go back on my word,” he said.

“Don't,” Alana said. “And don't second-guess yourself.” She lay down on the sofa and covered herself with the throw blanket. “Keep talking to me,” she said.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Doesn't matter. I just want to hear your voice.” She snuggled into a throw pillow. “Missy's with me right now.”

“Missy's always with you,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “And Charlie.” He paused. “Were they okay? They were anxious when I left.”

“There was some pee on the carpet and the pillows were on the floor,” Alana said, “but they were okay.” 

“Good,” he said. “You take good care of them, Alana.” 

She smiled. “It's not just me any more, remember?” 

“Yeah,” he said. He sounded sad. “Keep talking to me,” she said, desperate to keep the sadness from his voice. “Tell me a story. Tell me about New Orleans. I've never been.”

And he did – he told her about Mardi Gras and the French Quarter, about shotgun houses in the Ninth Ward, about crawfish and oysters and po boys with mayonnaise. He kept talking to her until she fell asleep. When she woke, early-morning light was filtering in through the windows. The phone was silent. It occurred to her that she didn't have his number so she couldn't call him back. She got up, let out the dogs, and then took a long bath. When had the silence in her own home become so unnerving? 

Around nine in the morning, her cell phone started ringing. The callers weren't her friends – they were members of the press looking for statements from her. She stopped answering calls from numbers she didn't recognize, and urged her friends and family to text rather than call. 

She blow-dried her hair and got dressed in jeans and a sweater, not having the energy to dress up for the office. She had just let the dogs out again and was pouring her coffee into its travel mug when her secured cell phone rang. She ran to it. “Will?” she asked when she picked up. 

“I'm sorry, Dr. Bloom. It's not Mr. Graham,” a male voice said on the other end of the line. “I'm Agent Spellman, one of the agents assigned to your security detail.” 

Alana sighed. “I'm sorry. I've just been getting calls from the press all morning.”

Spellman chuckled. “That's not surprising. I know you're about to head to work. We've had agents on you all night. We don't want you to worry – we'll keep our distance, but you'll be safe.”

“How will I know you if I need help?”

“We'll be following you in various kinds of cars. You won't know us because our suspect can't know you're being followed – he'll notice a consistency in the car, if he is trailing you. But if you need help, dial the star key and nine on this phone and that will alert us.” 

“Okay,” Alana said. “Thank you very much, Agent Spellman.” 

“You're welcome,” Spellman said, and then hung up the phone. Alana did feel some relief; it sounded like the agents knew what they were doing. All she could hope for was that the ruse was good enough for Hannibal. 

A few days later, just as Will had predicted, Hannibal called her, and she had put on the acting job of her life. The hardest part was acknowledging that she and Will were in a relationship without letting on that she completely believed Will and that Hannibal was now the suspect in the copycat murders. She told Hannibal that Will had admitted to her that he might have been delusional when he told Jack that he believed Hannibal was the copycat killer. She never let on any of her suspicions, or the FBI's, that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. Sherman and McClellan had coached her on what to say, and she had dutifully recorded her conversation with Hannibal and sent it to the FBI police. 

Alana didn't know whether or not he believed her. It had been difficult to lie: she was not normally a liar, because she never had to lie, so she couldn't tell if she was good at it or not. She hoped that Hannibal would not force her into a face-to-face meeting. Sherman and McClellan said that if that happened, they would coach her for that as well, and she would be well-protected if Hannibal came to her home or tried to confront her in a public place. 

Quiet weeks passed. Hannibal made no effort to contact her again. Beverly said he was still an official consultant for the BAU, but Bella Crawford's cancer had taken a rapid turn for the worse and she was not expected to live longer than a few more months. Jack was spending more and more time at her side, and the agent who had taken over running the BAU in his absence did not favor Hannibal. Alana began to think they were dangerously close to a stalemate and could only hope Hannibal still did not suspect anything. 

She and Will spoke for hours every evening. Will insisted he was all right, but he was isolated and alone again, and Alana was afraid he'd lose the ground he'd gained in the past nine months. And she, too, missed him terribly. It was okay to talk to him, but it wasn't the same as having physical contact with him. 

As Christmas drew closer, Alana told Angela Sherman that she wanted to see Will. “Everyone is entitled to spend Christmas with their family,” she insisted. “Will and I are in a relationship and I want to see him.” 

Sherman didn't agree right away. Alana kept pushing. “We've done everything you've asked us to,” she said. “Will's been alone in an apartment for weeks. He's sacrificed his freedom for your investigation.” 

“Which we are very grateful for.”

Alana sighed. “Angela, I know things aren't looking good right now. There's a real possibility that Will might be in hiding for months. He already spent a year in Baltimore State Hospital because of Hannibal Lecter. I'm worried about his mental state. Isolation isn't psychologically healthy; you know this. Please let me see him. I'm only asking for a few hours.” 

There was silence on the other end. Finally, Sherman agreed. Alana would be driven to Will's apartment in Baltimore by one of the agents guarding her. She couldn't stay the night, but at least she and Will would be allowed to spend a few hours together. 

Before she hung up, Sherman stopped her. “Dr. Bloom, you usually attend Dr. Lecter's Christmas Eve party, correct?” she asked. 

“I haven't attended every year, but yes, I've attended many times. Why do you ask?”

“The Ripper's last sounder occurred just before Christmas last year, around this time. Do you think there's any significance about that date?” 

Alana thought back. The Chesapeake Ripper, to her knowledge, was not accustomed to committing sounders on the same days. He lacked any sense of nostalgia or any connection to certain dates or times of the year. His killing pattern was irregular, and the number of victims had fluctuated in number as well. All she knew was that when he was deemed active, multiple murders occurred within days of each other. “If there is, I don't know,” she said. “Will might be able to answer that question better than I could.” 

Sherman sighed. “Mr. Graham hasn't been forthcoming with that information. He says he doesn't know, but I suspect he's hiding something.” 

_What would Will be hiding?_ she thought. Hiding things from the FBI was one thing – he hadn't told them everything he knew or given them all the evidence he had, Alana was sure of that – but if he was indeed hiding something, he was hiding it from her, too. “I can ask him when I see him,” Alana said, conscious that this offer was part of the game. _Give her a reason for me to talk to Will in private, and maybe I'll get what I want, which is more visits,_ she thought. 

Sherman agreed. The evening before Christmas Eve, Alana was in a nondescript gray car traveling to Baltimore. She would be allowed to stay until early morning, if she wished, and then she would be returned home. While they were visiting together, Alana's agent would remain downstairs with the agent assigned to Will. 

She took the elevator up to the third floor, where Will's apartment was located, and rapped on the door in the pattern his agent had told her to use – three quick knocks, then two slower knocks. “Alana?” she heard him ask behind the door. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” she said. She felt oddly excited. 

He opened the door. There he was, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Alana ran into his arms and hugged him close. They kissed like horny teenagers – Alana _felt_ like a horny teenager. _It's only been a few weeks,_ she thought as she pressed her mouth to his, taking comfort in its warm, familiar taste. _Barely any time at all, and yet I ached for him, for this._

“I brought you a present,” she said, finally pulling away. She was out of breath.

“Mmm, my present's already here,” he said, leaning in to kiss her neck. She giggled. “But I smell french fries,” he added.

Alana held up bags from Shake Shack with burgers and fries. “I love you,” he said. 

“I brought custard, too. Red velvet cake and strawberry shortcake. Which one do you want?” 

He grinned. “A bit of both?” He put an arm around her, locked the door behind him, and led her inside. Alana saw the apartment for the first time. It was small but clean and comfortable. There was IKEA furniture and a flatscreen TV, and she saw his laptop sitting on the sofa. Her Kindle, which she had let him take, was on the coffee table. “It's not so bad,” he said as she looked around. 

“No, it's not so bad,” she agreed. There was a small kitchen to the side of the living room, and Alana walked toward it still carrying the bags of food. She took out the food and set it on the counter while Will pulled out two beers from the fridge. “What have you been eating?” she asked. “You look skinny again.” 

“Mostly frozen stuff,” he said, popping open the caps on the beer bottles. “I get food delivery twice a week. The agents won't let me leave.” 

“So you haven't left this apartment at all in three weeks?” 

Will shook his head. “But it's better than Chilton's.” He smiled, a little sadly. “You call every night, and I hear from Sherman and McClellan all the time, and the agents are okay. And I have the television and the internet. I don't feel imprisoned, if that's what you're worried about.” 

She touched his face fondly. “You look a little sad,” she said, stroking his cheek. 

“I'm okay, Alana, really. I'm not going to go crazy again.”

“You weren't crazy the first time, just depressed.” 

He smiled tightly, his sad smile. “I'm glad you're here.”

“I am, too.” Although he obviously didn't want to admit it, the isolation was wearing on him. Alana leaned into him again and embraced him. She stroked his back and listened to his calm breathing against her. She could feel his hands on her back, too, but distantly, since she was still wearing her coat. Finally, wanting to remove her coat, she broke the embrace. “Let's eat,” she said. “I'm starving.” 

They sat together and ate in front of the television. Alana let him eat most of the custard. She draped her legs over his lap and he stroked her ankles and calves. Then, when he was finished with the food, Alana became more aggressive: she sat on his lap and started to kiss him slowly, and then more deeply. She gyrated her hips against him, and she could feel him growing hard through his jeans. Then he lay her down flat on the sofa and started to unbutton her jeans and remove her sweater. He was stroking her lower abdomen, his fingers venturing into her panties, when she stopped him. “Not here,” she said. “I hate the couch. Let's go to bed.” 

He sighed dramatically, then lifted her up and took her down a short hallway into his bedroom. Alana laughed the whole way. He lay her gently on the bed, then straddled her. They fumbled with each other's clothes, but they were naked soon enough. 

They made love, quickly at first, and then again more slowly, savoring each other. Afterward, they lay in bed together. Alana lay her head on his shoulder and breathed in his familiar smell. “You smell good,” she said. 

He laughed. “I don't smell like anything.”

“You smell like yourself.” She smiled. “It's pheromones. I like yours because they're compatible with mine.” 

“You said once that we weren't compatible.” 

She lay her head on his chest and looked at him. “As much as we try to separate the brain and the body, we really can't. My brain said we weren't compatible. My body says otherwise.”

He smiled at her. “What does your brain say now?” 

“It's saying, 'Shut the hell up and listen to your body.'” She leaned in for another soft, slow kiss from him. 

“Are you tired?” he asked when they separated. 

“Not at all,” she said. “I want another beer, actually. I'm not driving.”

He smiled. “I'll get you one.”

“Let's go watch TV. I want to watch Christmas movies.”

He laughed. “You always want to watch Christmas movies.” He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and left the bedroom. 

Alana put on her panties and one of Will's t-shirts, then went into the living room to watch television again. While Will was opening two more beers, she cleared up the trash from their meal before sitting down next to Will, who was flipping through the channels. 

“What have you been working on?” she asked, poking his laptop with her toe. 

“Personal stuff. I can't respond to emails since I'm supposed to be in prison.” He chuckled. “I almost slipped up a few times.”

“Me too,” she said. “I'm a bad liar.”

He stroked her shoulder affectionately. “That's not a bad thing. I'm glad you're not a good liar. It means you don't have to practice.”

“You've had to practice a lot.”

He shrugged. “I was a cop. I was trained for it. You're trained to be honest.” 

She smiled and snuggled up next to him, placing her arm around his stomach. He continued to stroke her shoulder. “I'm not seeing any Christmas movies,” he said.

“It's fine. Put on whatever you want.” She reached for her beer on the coffee table and took a sip. She lay against him, listening to his breathing, trying to enjoy the warmth of his body. She had missed him so much. 

After about half an hour of contented silence, Alana had nearly finished her beer. “Angela Sherman basically asked me to ask you something,” she said. “She thought you were hiding something from her – from the investigation.” 

“What is it?”

“She wanted to know if there was any significance in the dates of the Ripper's sounders. Why does he kill as the Ripper only during certain periods, if he kills as frequently as we think he does?” 

Will was silent for a long time. “There is something more that motivates those murders,” he finally said.

“What is it?” 

She was shocked to see tears fill his eyes. “Please, Alana. I don't want to answer this.” 

“Did he tell you something at Chilton's?” she asked gently. “Is that why it hurts you?”

Will shook his head. “It doesn't hurt me.” He paused. “Well, not a lot.” 

She sat back from him. “But it will hurt me.” 

He nodded silently. Alana thought back to his prison journal, which she'd read so many times she'd had parts of it memorized. _I still see you as a refuge, a beautiful place that must be kept safe from the demons within and without._

“You know I'm going to keep digging, Will,” she said. “I'll find out, even if you won't tell me.” 

He looked at her. His eyes were so sad. “You're brilliant, Alana. You know that. But this...this is beyond you. It's not that you're not smart enough. It's that you're too good a person.” He kissed her hand. “Lecter is a man capable of unspeakable evil. He's not just a sadist. He's more. And I don't want to talk to you about it now, here, because it's not a place I want to go with you just yet.” A few tears trickled down his cheeks. “Do you understand?” 

Alana's psychiatrist side kicked in. Will was firmly establishing a boundary. Alana could push against it, but it would be stressful, and likely not even successful. Whatever was behind that door frightened him. He had opened a lot of doors for her, dismantled a lot of walls, but she also had to respect that there were some he wasn't ready to open yet. “I understand,” she said. 

“Please don't be angry with me. I don't want to insult you. I just...I want to protect you, even if you feel you don't need protection.” 

She sighed. “I'm not angry, my love.” She settled back against him again and took another sip of her beer. In spite of what she'd said earlier about not feeling tired, she felt so comfortable and content in his presence that she felt her eyelids grow heavy. She might have fallen asleep. She awoke to a knock on Will's front door – four short knocks. “Your guard?” Alana asked as she sat up.

“No, that's not the right knock,” Will murmured. “Get your purse and coat and go into the bedroom. Call Jack,” he said quietly. “If Lecter's up here, he's gotten past the FBI police already.” 

“Will --”

“It's him. I know it is. Do as I ask, and don't make any noise. Please.” 

Alana got off the couch and hurried around the room, as silently as she could. Her Ruger was in her purse, and Will had ordered her to take it into the bedroom, away from him, so that he could hide the fact that she was here. _Maybe he thinks he can talk him down,_ she thought as she hurried down the hallway, unlocking her phone. _This doesn't have to end in bloodshed._

But Alana knew that was unlikely. 

As soon as she entered the bedroom, she threw her coat and purse on the bed. She pulled her Ruger from its holster and checked the clip. It was loaded, and a bullet was ready in the chamber. The gun was clean and ready to go. 

She heard voices – she recognized Hannibal's calm lilt. Will had been right. She tried to listen to what they were saying, but it was too hard to concentrate on that and on the phone call. 

She called Jack, praying that he would pick up quickly. He was likely at home with Bella this late. She felt relieved when he picked up. “Alana,” he said, all business. 

“I have to whisper,” she said. “Hannibal's at the safe house in Baltimore with us. Will's trying to talk to him. You need to send the police. Make them aware of what's going on here or there could be a bloodbath.”

“They've already been called, as has the FBI. The agent trailing you is still alive, but injured.” _You and Will are on your own,_ Jack didn't say, but Alana knew. “You have your gun?” he asked. 

She didn't ask how Jack knew – Will could have told him, or he could have checked the public records. “Yes. I'll use it if I have to. I won't let him kill Will.” 

“Stay hidden,” Jack said. “The police will be there in minutes.”

“Okay,” Alana said. “I'm hanging up.”

“Okay,” Jack replied. “Be careful.” 

Alana silenced the phone and then put it in the waistband of her panties, next to her thigh. She couldn't hold it and the Ruger at the same time. She walked to the door and listened. She had left it slightly ajar, but she didn't know if it would squeak if she opened it more.

Hannibal and Will were still talking, still too quietly for her to understand them. Her Ruger was in her hand. She knew she would have to use it tonight. In spite of what she'd told Jack, she refused to stay hidden, not while Will was in danger. 

She sucked in her stomach and slipped through the crack in the door. It moved, but did not squeak. Grateful she was already barefoot, she exited the room, careful to not make any noise.

Will's voice was clearer when she entered the hallway: the apartment was small, and Will was between her and the door. “Have you come to kill me, Dr. Lecter?” she heard Will ask. “There's only one reason why you're here, and it isn't to talk.” 

“No,” she heard Hannibal say, and he sighed. “It isn't.”

“Then get it over with,” Will said. “Stop playing with me.” 

Alana heard scuffling, grunting, the sounds of furniture being moved and broken. They were finally fighting. And they were fighting _hard_ – she heard the sound of blows, noises of pain from both men, curses from Will. Carefully, slowly, Alana reached the end of the short hallway and stopped just before the living room. 

“Where's Alana?” she heard Hannibal ask.

“She's not here,” Will said, gasping.

“Don't lie to me,” Hannibal said. “I can smell her.” She heard Will make a gasping noise – Hannibal had grabbed him by the throat. “Come out, Alana, my sweet girl,” he said. “I'll let him go if you come out and talk to me.” 

_Do you really think I'm that stupid?_ Alana wanted to say, but she held her tongue. _You've come to kill both of us. But I'm going to kill you instead._

There was more noise; Will was clearly struggling with Hannibal. They were nearly the same height and weight, and Will was strong. Alana waited, listening, her Ruger in her hands. 

Then she turned the corner. 

Hannibal still had Will in a chokehold – Alana saw Hannibal's back, and a flash of a knife in his hands. Before she could stop him, Hannibal stabbed Will. Blood sprayed everywhere and she heard Will make an ungodly noise, a noise she could never imagine he could make. 

Alana wanted to scream, to run to him. The gun shook in her hands and she fought to regain control. If she made a noise, Hannibal would hear her. He would smell her in just moments and know she was there. 

Hannibal had still not let Will go. He was easing him onto the floor and whispering to him. “Shh,” he said. “It will be over soon.” She heard, rather than saw, Hannibal kiss him. “You've been brave, Will.”

“No,” Will moaned. “Get away from me...” 

Alana raised the Ruger. It felt firm in her hands this time. She'd practiced so much, both dreading and anticipating this moment. 

Hannibal gently lay Will down on the floor. Alana could see Will was bleeding heavily. _Give me a shot,_ she prayed to whoever was listening. _His back won't work. I could hit Will. Turn him toward me._

“I'll honor you both,” Hannibal said, and he turned towards her – he must have smelled her. He was covered in blood and there was a knife in his gloved hands: it had a heavy handle and a hooked blade. It was dripping with Will's blood. Alana choked down her rising panic and focused on keeping her hand steady. 

“Alana,” Hannibal said, a note of surprise in his voice. Something inside her screamed _don't let him speak._ She shot him twice, before he could say another word. She heard the spent shell casings hit the floor with a tinkling noise. 

Hannibal dropped immediately. She hadn't expected that. He was now on his back on the floor, close to Will, and Alana saw two holes in the left side of his chest, two spreading pools of blood on his suit and shirt. 

She stood over him, both of her hands still on the gun. Her finger was still on the trigger. He looked up at her, his mouth open in shock. The little voice in her was still screaming _don't let him speak._ She didn't know who or what it was, but trusted it. She heard Will's voice in her mind: _Put him down._

“Alana,” she heard someone whisper – it was Will. He was still alive, crumpled on the floor nearby. He was looking at her, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks. “Don't,” he said. 

Her hands were shaking and she felt her knees tremble. “No,” she told Will. “It has to end.” She steadied her aim. Hannibal had made no effort to move away from her, to fight her. 

There was a blast of noise – it rattled her nerves and she felt the gun shake in her hand. She only had a moment to will herself into keeping the Ruger in her hands when she heard a male voice yell, _“Drop your weapon!”_ She froze, and only then realized the officer was talking to her. She bent down, slowly, and lay her Ruger on the kitchen counter, far out of Hannibal's reach, making sure the officer could see her hands. 

More officers swarmed in with guns drawn. Alana kept still, her hands outstretched, the corner of her eye on her gun. Hannibal was on the floor; she could hear him wheezing. She'd hit him in the lung. 

She felt her cell phone ringing in the waistband of her panties. “This is an FBI investigation,” she yelled, to no one in particular. “Hannibal Lecter, the man in the suit, is wanted for murder. Agents are on their way to apprehend him.” 

One of the police officers walked toward her. “You can put your hands down,” he told her. “The FBI sent us here.” She could see that, past him, they were moving Hannibal away from Will. 

“I'm an M.D. Please let me help my boyfriend,” she said. “He's badly injured.” She could see an officer bending over Will and taking his pulse. 

“You've got gunpowder on your hands,” the officer replied.

“I know. I shot Dr. Lecter. I admit it,” Alana said impatiently. “Charge me with whatever you want, but please, let me help my boyfriend first.” 

The officer nodded. Alana ran to Will, who was laying on his side, almost on his stomach. She and the other officer carefully rolled Will onto his back. He moaned in agony. There was a pool of blood underneath him, and his hands and arms were covered in it. “I need a towel,” she told the officer. “Quickly.” She carefully adjusted Will's head and neck to make sure his airway was open and clear. 

“Good shot, Annie,” he said. His voice was very weak. 

“I was wide,” she said. “I was aiming for his heart.” 

“You were perfect,” he said. She felt his forehead – he was already clammy. He was losing blood so fast. _I waited too long to shoot,_ she thought, and then shoved the thought out of her mind, willing herself to focus. 

“You're going into shock,” she told Will. “I need you to stay awake and talk to me.” 

“I love you,” he said quietly. 

“I love you,” she said. “But we're not saying goodbye. You're going to be all right.” 

The officer returned with a towel from the bathroom. Alana peeled Will's shirt, which was already heavy with blood, away from the wound. She fought to stay calm and keep her hands steady. The knife wound was deep and there were obviously injuries to Will's internal organs. She had to slow the bleeding fast or he would die within minutes. 

The officer next to her was pulling on latex gloves. He knew what had to be done, too. She looked up at him and he nodded at her. “We have to put pressure on your wound to try to slow the bleeding,” she said. “It's going to hurt. I'm sorry.” 

Will nodded. She placed the towel over his wound, trying to cover as much as she could. The wound was enormous. Hannibal had almost cut Will in two. 

“Count of three, okay?” she asked. He nodded again. “One, two, three,” she said, and on three she pushed down, hard. The officer pressed down, too, on the right side of Will's abdomen, where Alana couldn't reach. 

Will almost convulsed underneath her from the pain. “You need to stay still!” she ordered. “Please, Will!” Desperation had crept into her voice and she choked it down. “Breathe, baby. Come on. As deep as you can, all right?” 

“Hurts,” he moaned, half-sobbing.

“I know,” she said, choking down tears. “Breathe through the pain. Breathe.”

The first officer she'd spoken to crouched next to her. “The paramedics are on their way, Doctor,” he said.

“He's going to need to be airlifted,” she said. “He's losing blood too fast.” 

“We'll call it in,” the officer said, rising and turning away. Will was shaking uncontrollably. Alana was using both her hands to press on his wound, so she had to calm him with her words. “Baby, you need to stay awake,” she said. 

“I'm tired,” he moaned.

“I know. I know you're tired, but you have to hold on, okay? Keep talking to me.” 

“Don't blame yourself,” he said. 

“What do you mean?”

Tears were filling his eyes again – she didn't know if it was from pain or emotion or both, but he couldn't afford to lose anything else right now. “I _know,_ Alana,” he whispered. “I didn't want him to hurt you. Don't blame yourself.” 

She shook her head. “Stop talking like that. You're not going to die.” She tried to sound strong, but it was taking every ounce of her strength not to break down. 

“Please take care of the dogs,” he said. “They love you.” 

“I'll take care of them until you come home,” she said. 

She heard another commotion at the door. The paramedics had arrived. Two of them came to Will's side. She told them about his injuries and they nodded, their faces grim. She felt a firm hand around her arm. It was the first officer – Alana realized she didn't know his name. “Doctor, come with me,” he said. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can help.” 

“The paramedics are here to do that. You need to come with me.” He helped her up – she probably flashed her panties as she rose, but she didn't care about modesty – and led her into the kitchen. 

She saw there were paramedics also treating Hannibal. Two officers still had guns pointed at him, but he was looking right at her. She was seized with an overwhelming urge to attack him: to claw at his face with her bare hands, to strangle him as he had tried to strangle Will. She thought it was only the officer's arm around her that stopped her. 

To attempt to center herself, she watched the paramedics treating Will: they had put an oxygen mask on his face and were checking his blood pressure. He was still awake, but visibly struggling. “I can help,” she repeated to the officer.

“No, Doctor, you've done enough,” he said to her, very gently. She was keenly aware of the wetness of Will's blood all over her hands. Her t-shirt was covered in it. It seemed impossible that Will could bleed that much already and still be alive, but he was. 

She hoped the helicopter would arrive soon. The paramedics had removed the towel and were laying bandages over the massive wound in his abdomen. At this point, all they could do was try to control the bleeding and keep Will alive. 

Alana felt the cell phone vibrate again. She pulled it out and saw Beverly's number. “It's my colleague,” she told the officer. “At the FBI. Can I answer it?” 

The officer nodded. “Beverly,” Alana said when she picked up the phone. 

“We're on our way. Where's Lecter?” 

“He's here. I shot him.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yes. The Baltimore police are here.” 

“Where's Will?”

“He's here, too.” She took a breath. “The paramedics are here. There's a helicopter coming for him.” 

She heard Beverly relay the news to someone. “Jack says you need to stay there,” Beverly said. 

“I want to go with Will,” Alana said, angry. She couldn't stay here, not with Will the way he was...

“I know, sweetie,” Beverly said. “I know. But we need to process you and the scene. You understand?” 

“Yeah,” she muttered. 

“We'll be there, Alana. We're flying in by helicopter, too. We're just waiting for Jack to get here.” Beverly took a breath. “The FBI police are on their way, too. They've got a dead agent and another one that's been seriously injured. They'll get there before us. I need you to do what the police tell you to, okay? Stay at the scene. They all know not to remove you from the apartment.” 

“Okay,” Alana said. She had been watching the paramedics with Will the whole time Beverly had been speaking. The apartment was full of people and noise – paramedics, police officers talking on radios, and now detectives. The FBI would soon be on their way.

A female detective came over to Alana. “Dr. Bloom?” she asked. Alana forced her eyes away from Will. “Yes?” she asked. 

“Is the gun on the kitchen counter yours?”

“Yes,” Alana repeated. “I have a concealed carry license. The gun is registered to me.”

“And that was the gun you shot Dr. Lecter with?”

“Yes,” she said again. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the dead and injured agents downstairs. Hannibal had hurt them to get to herself and Will. “He killed an FBI agent and then came up here to kill me and my boyfriend. We were friends – former friends – of his.” The profiler in her turned on. _He came up here to make a tableau of us,_ she thought. _His finest work: the two people that betrayed him, who dared to love each other more than they loved him._

“Dr. Bloom?” the detective asked. “Are you all right?” 

There was more movement at the door. The flight nurses and doctor from the helicopter came in and quickly went to Will at the police officers' directions. The detective that had been talking to Alana turned away. 

A few moments later, one of the EMTs who had been working on Will came and stood next to her. “Are you okay, Doctor?” he asked.

Alana nodded silently. She could only see Will's legs and bare feet, which were still, through the crowd of people around him. 

The EMT took her pulse – he was checking her for shock. Alana swallowed hard. “I'm okay, really,” she said. 

“I don't think any of us would be okay if we saw what you just saw,” the EMT said. “But you're not in shock.” 

Alana knew she wasn't in shock. She just felt numb. The medics from the helicopter were moving fast: she saw them getting out the equipment to intubate Will, and she had to turn away. 

“They're going to take him to Johns Hopkins,” the EMT said. 

Alana nodded. “I trained there,” she said automatically.

“He'll be in good hands.” 

“Yes,” Alana whispered. Will's blood was starting to dry on her hands and arms. The EMT and the detective – Alana didn't know anyone's name – surrounded her and kept her in the kitchen. “I can't go,” she said to them. “They told me not to go with him.”

“No, Doctor,” the detective said. “You can't go.” 

There was a rush of voices – the flight medics were getting ready to evacuate Will. They moved him onto a backboard to take him to the helicopter. Alana wanted to say goodbye, but she could see that he was unconscious. He had already been intubated and a medic was pumping air into his lungs. The parts of his face she could see were extremely pale. 

_I love you, baby,_ she thought to him, and the tears finally filled her eyes. _I love you. Hold on for me. I'll be with you soon._

The medics disappeared out the door with him. A few tears fell from her eyes, but the floodgates didn't open. She watched as the other paramedics removed Hannibal a few minutes later, followed by a troop of police officers. Hannibal had an oxygen mask on his face, but he was still looking at her, and kept his eyes on her until he disappeared from her sight. 

“Come and sit on the sofa, Doctor,” the detective said. “My name's Mary Jackson, by the way. I didn't introduce myself earlier.”

“It's nice to meet you, Detective,” Alana said, still numb. “Do you need a statement from me?”

“The FBI will take over once they get here,” Detective Jackson said. “We're just here to secure the scene and evacuate the victims.” 

_Then they shouldn't have taken Hannibal,_ she thought. _He's no victim._ She laughed despite herself. _Or maybe he is. Maybe he's_ my _victim._

And the thought filled her with a little pleasure as she sat on the sofa and waited for the FBI to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome! I miss hearing from you all! Thanks for reading.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Jack and the other agents from the BAU arrived more than an hour later, well after Sherman and McClellan had come up from D.C. Alana was still seated on the sofa in the wrecked and blood-spattered living room, and Angela Sherman had wrapped one of Will's blankets around her shoulders. 

Jack came over to her and froze. He looked alarmed to see her covered in blood. “It's Will's,” she said. 

“We have to talk to you before you can go to the hospital,” Jack said. 

Alana nodded. “I've been waiting for you.” She had to fight to keep the annoyance out of her voice. 

“Are you injured?” he asked. Alana shook her head. In the last hour, the numbness had stopped spreading and now she was on the edge of panic. She was barely containing it.

“We've already questioned her, Agent Crawford,” Sherman said. “Dr. Lecter has been taken to Johns Hopkins as well, under heavy guard.”

Alana began to tune out their conversation. Sherman and McClellan were still not sure how Hannibal had managed to find the safe house and know Alana was there, but they suspected there was a security breach with one of the agents assigned to trail him, who was now missing. 

Beverly came over and sat next to her. “I'm going to take you into the bedroom and process you,” she said. “Once we're done, you can go to the hospital.” 

“I shot Hannibal,” Alana said. “I admit it. You don't need to do the test.” Will's blood had dried on her hands and arms long ago, and now she was starting to itch. She felt guilty for wanting to get his blood off of her. 

“I have to do the test,” Beverly said. “But I'll be quick. Let me just get some samples to test and then you can wash.” 

Alana nodded. Beverly helped her off the couch and wrapped an arm around her. They walked together to Will's bedroom. The bedsheets were still disturbed from when Will and Alana had had sex. 

There was a knock at the door. “Beverly, it's me,” someone said, and Alana recognized it as Price's voice. “I brought you the camera and the kit.”

“Hold on a sec,” Beverly said, touching Alana's shoulder. She opened the door and took the camera and kit. Alana waited while Beverly took some photographs of her hands and t-shirt, and then swabbed her hands and arms. “When you go into the shower, you need to give me your shirt,” Beverly said. “I have to bag it for evidence.” 

Alana nodded silently. “These are your clothes?” Beverly said, nodding to Alana's jeans, sweater, and bra, which were crumpled on the floor where Will had tossed them after he'd stripped off her clothing. Alana's coat and purse were on the bed along with the empty holster for the Ruger. Alana nodded silently again.

Beverly looked at her. Alana had rarely seen a look of compassion on Beverly's face – she was usually no-nonsense, even darkly funny – so it took her a moment to recognize the emotion. “I'm not going to ask you if you're okay, because you're not,” Beverly said. “But I'm here if you need to talk.” 

Alana felt tears spring to her eyes, but they didn't fall. “I want to see Will,” she whispered. 

Beverly nodded. “Then let's get you cleaned up and the hell out of here.” Beverly picked up Alana's clothes from the floor. Alana made to take them, but Beverly moved them out of her reach. “Not yet. After you've cleaned up, you can put them on.” 

Alana nodded again. Beverly glanced at her coat on the bed. “It's really cold out. Let's see if we can borrow something of Will's. I don't think he would mind.” She moved to the dresser and opened a drawer. Alana knew she didn't need any more clothes, but Beverly was doing this because she knew that wearing something of Will's would be comforting to her. “Thank you,” she choked out.

“For what?” Beverly asked, as she turned toward her. 

Alana couldn't say it – she could feel the well of emotion building up in her, and she knew she had to keep it in control. Beverly gave her a small, sad smile. “Will is my friend,” she said. “And so are you.” 

Alana nodded, biting her lip to keep the tears from falling. Beverly turned back to the drawer and made a small noise of satisfaction as she pulled out one of Will's hooded jackets. Alana knew it because she had bought it. They had gone to H&M and she had picked everything out and sat outside the fitting room, laughing as he tried them on. “You look so handsome,” she'd kept saying, and kissed him every time he came out in a new outfit. 

“Come on,” Beverly said gently, wrapping an arm around her shoulders again. They left the bedroom and went into the bathroom. Beverly placed the clothes on the toilet and then pulled the blanket off of her. “I'm going to find you a towel. Don't get undressed or lay your shirt against any surface in here, okay?”

Alana nodded. “Okay,” she said. She felt like a bit of the fog had lifted from her brain, but the panic was close. “What else do you need?” Beverly asked. 

“Will has Xanax somewhere,” Alana said. “It's probably in the kitchen. Can you cut half a tablet and bring it to me?”

Beverly looked at her. “You've been drinking tonight. I saw the broken bottles. Are you sure?”

Alana nodded. “I'm fine. It'll take the edge off.” 

Beverly nodded. “Let me get you the Xanax and a towel. Sit tight, okay?” 

Alana nodded back, and Beverly left the bathroom. She stood still, listening to the noise and voices outside the bathroom. She called on her psychiatrist side. _Breathe in and out,_ she told herself. _In and out. Calm yourself._

She was so focused on her breathing that Beverly's turn of the doorknob startled her. Beverly had brought her a towel, half a Xanax, and a glass of water. She lay the glass of water and the pill on the side of the sink. “Let me get your shirt before I go,” Beverly said gently, opening a paper evidence bag she had brought into the bathroom as well. 

Alana wore nothing under the t-shirt but her panties. She felt a little relief that Beverly was with her now, and not an anonymous female officer – Alana felt no shame in her body, she was even proud of it, but it was different being naked in front of a stranger. She peeled off the t-shirt and handed it to Beverly, who was careful not to stare at her naked breasts. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said. “I'll be right outside.” 

“Thanks, Beverly,” Alana said. “For everything.” Beverly nodded and left.

After the door closed, Alana looked down at her body for the first time. Will's blood was all over the bottom of her torso. It had seeped through the t-shirt she was wearing and even into her panties. Alana stripped them off and left them on the bathroom floor. She turned on the water and, while she waited for it to get hot, she went back to the sink and took the Xanax, letting the pill dissolve on her tongue. She was no stranger to benzos – she'd often joked with Jenny and Brian and her other friends from Johns Hopkins that the only things that got her through med school were cigarettes, beer, Xanax, and Hannibal.

She felt a rush of sickness at the memory. His face swam into her mind and, before she could push it away, she remembered how he had looked at her before and after she'd shot him. His eyes had never held a look of betrayal, only surprise and...fascination.

Will had stopped her from killing him – she had meant to kill him, consequences be damned. But he had stopped her. _It wasn't that he cared about Hannibal's life,_ she thought. _He cared about mine._

Will had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs: he had emptied a whole clip into the man. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was a murderer and cannibal. Hannibal Lecter was a savage murderer. He'd had a weapon and used it against a defenseless person, just as Hobbs had done. Hobbs's shooting was completely justified, but it had haunted Will. Hannibal's death would not haunt Alana because it had not happened. He would be locked away – most likely at Chilton's – and go on trial and be found guilty and spend the rest of his life in a cage, being fed terrible food and wearing prison jumpsuits instead of silk and cashmere. Perhaps a fate worse than death for a man like him. 

There was another knock at the door. “Alana?” Beverly asked.

“I'm okay,” she said, her voice sounding weak in her own ears. The Xanax was hitting fast. 

With trembling hands, she checked the temperature of the water and stepped in when it was hot enough, taking care not to wet her hair because it was cold outside. She scrubbed her hands and body with soap and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the water turn pink and disappear into the drain.

Within minutes, she was clean. A new urgency had seized her, and she dried herself and put on her clothes, leaving her bra. She pulled Will's hoodie on over her sweater. She tried to smell him on the jacket, but she couldn't.

Alana walked outside. Beverly had found her sheepskin boots and handed them to her, along with her purse and coat. “Your boots were by the sofa,” she said. “Maybe that's why Lecter knew you were here.”

Alana shook her head. “No, Sherman and McClellan think he knew before he came here.” She really did not want to talk about Hannibal. She pulled on the boots and shrugged on her coat. “I'm ready to go.” 

Beverly nodded. “There's a car that will take you to Johns Hopkins. Jack and I will be there as soon as we can.” 

On the way to Johns Hopkins, the driver put on police lights for her benefit. She stared out the window aimlessly. Part of her was still choking down panic, screaming that she needed to get to the hospital, get to Will – but another part was dreading what she would find there.

The rational part of Alana knew that Will would be lucky if he made it to the hospital alive. She'd seen the stony faces of the EMTs and the police, known why they'd separated her from him in spite of her ability to assist. Will had been losing blood fast, and without a transfusion – probably several of them – he would not survive. 

The FBI driver stopped at the entrance to the emergency room. The agent that accompanied her helped her out of the car, then walked in with her and flashed his badge, asking for Will. The guard verified that Will was at the hospital, but wouldn't let her in to see him. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait out here for information,” he said. 

Alana nodded. “I'm okay,” she said to the agent. “Thank you for driving me.”

“You're welcome, Dr. Bloom,” he answered. “Agent Crawford will be here soon.” 

Alana nodded again – she didn't much care when Jack would get here – and then took a seat as the agent left. 

Over an hour passed. _If Will died already, they would have told me,_ she thought. _He survived the trip to the hospital._ She watched people enter and exit the waiting room, listened absently to the news on the television. Hannibal's arrest was not mentioned. 

After two hours, she saw a hospital worker in blue scrubs walk toward her. “You're here for William Graham?” she asked. 

“Yes,” she said, straightening up. “I'm Alana Bloom.” 

“What's your relationship to him?”

“I'm his girlfriend.” 

“Does he have any family?”

“No.” Her voice sounded weak and hoarse in her own ears. _Please just tell me._ “Is he alive?” 

“Mr. Graham's in surgery. It'll be a few more hours before we have any definitive news for you.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about his condition?” Alana asked.

The woman shook her head. “The doctors will talk with you as soon as they can. I've come to escort you to the surgical waiting room.” Alana rose from her seat and followed her deep into the hospital, down clean and stark corridors and past people in scrubs and lab coats. The woman said nothing to her, which Alana was glad for, because she wasn't in the mood for small talk or empty pleasantries. Will was still alive, but Alana knew that the woman's use of the word _definitive_ likely meant it was touch and go. 

Finally, she and the worker reached the waiting room. There were a few occupants as well as another TV. “Someone will be by to talk with you soon,” the woman repeated.

“Thank you,” Alana said, trying to sound sincere.

“You're welcome,” she said, but turned and walked away, saying nothing else. Alana appreciated the fact that the woman didn't make her act, but her lack of any good news was unnerving. Alana took a seat and wrapped her arms around her knees, laying her head down. _Please, baby,_ she told Will in her mind. _Please pull through. Whatever happens afterward, we'll deal with it together, but please...I love you._

But there was nothing but silence for hours. 

 

Will's nurse in the ICU had warned her that he was in very bad shape, but Alana had to see him for herself. The nurse led her into the dim room, lit only by the glow of monitors and the twinkling lights of slumbering Baltimore. “I'll give you a few minutes with him,” the nurse murmured, and Alana thanked her. She heard the nurse retreat, snapping off her gloves and pumping the dispenser of hand sanitizer on the wall. 

The only noises in the room were the hiss of the ventilator pumping air into Will's lungs and the monitor tracking his pulse. She focused on his face – she could see, out of the corner of her eye, the bandages and drains on his abdomen, but she didn't want to look. She'd seen enough already. 

“I'm here, Will,” she whispered. She caressed his hair. “I love you.” He didn't move. The parts of his face that weren't bruised or cut were gray. He was clinging to life. 

She reached down to grab his hand. With her other hand, she carefully stroked his face and hair, gliding her fingers around the cuts on his face and the plastic mouthpiece holding the ventilator in place. 

The doctors had been hesitant to give her the details, but Alana had insisted. They told her Will had barely survived the trip to the hospital – he had gone into cardiac arrest from shock twice, once in the helicopter for a short time and again in the emergency room upon arrival. They were surprised he had survived surgery. He would require more surgery, once he was stronger, but for now the surgeons had contained what damage they could and placed him under heavy sedation. His condition was unstable, and too much time in surgery at once could weaken him further. 

They had asked her, again, if Will had any family they should contact, and again, she had told them he didn't. He had no living will and no medical provisions, so Alana was authorized to make decisions for him, if she needed to. Though the doctors refused to make any statements about his recovery, even to her, she could tell they were not optimistic. 

Alana talked to him, hoping that even in his sedated state he could hear her voice: she told him repeatedly that she loved him, that he was in good hands here at the hospital, that Hannibal had been caught. As horrible and as dire as Will's condition was, her eyes were dry. She wasn't sure if it was from shock, or a unstated need to be strong for him, or even – and this became more of a possibility the more she considered it – from anger. 

After about fifteen minutes, the ICU nurse came in and told her, very gently and apologetically, that she had to leave Will for the rest of the night. She went into the waiting room and, without preamble, asked Jack where they were keeping Hannibal. 

“Alana --” Jack implored, but she was unfazed. _“Where is he?”_ she asked again. 

Jack probably saw something in her face that indicated that it would be unwise to argue with her. “He's in the ICU too, on the other side from Will. I'll take you.” 

They walked back into the ICU, turned left instead of right, and then proceeded down a short hallway. Hannibal's and Will's rooms were as far apart as they could get. When they reached Hannibal's room, there were several FBI agents as well as Baltimore PD officers standing guard outside of it. They were taking no chances – he had killed an FBI agent and nearly killed another agent and an investigator tonight, and had been arrested under multiple capital murder charges. 

“I'll be out here if you need me,” Jack said.

“I won't, but thank you,” she said politely.

Alana walked into the room. Hannibal was awake and sitting up. He was wearing a nasal cannula. “Hello, Alana,” he said. Alana stopped several feet from his bed, even though he was both handcuffed and restrained. “Even with this in my nose, I could smell you coming down the hall,” Hannibal said, pointing to the cannula. “Hanae Mori's Butterfly. A common scent, but a pleasant one. You've worn it as long as I've known you.” His voice was much weaker than usual, and he was obviously having difficulty breathing, but the tone sounded like he might have run into her in a coffee shop and not in a hospital ICU where he lay with multiple bullet holes in his chest – holes that she'd put there. 

Alana thought it was strange to see him like this – in a hospital gown, hair rumpled, face bruised, restrained to a bed. His expression, though, was completely normal: his head cocked ever so slightly, his brown eyes unreadable. Emotion surged in her, something she couldn't quite name, except that she felt glad she put a few bullets in him. And even though this monster she'd once called her friend had almost killed Will, Alana felt no fear. Maybe her anger was too great. 

“How is our good Will?” Hannibal asked.

A surge of that anger rose in her chest. “He's still alive, no thanks to you,” she said icily. 

Hannibal shook his head. He tried to look sad, but Alana could see now that it was all an act. “I didn't want to hurt him. He was completely delusional. He attacked me.”

“That's bullshit, you fucking liar,” she spat. “I heard you attack him. You slit his stomach open. You tried to spill his intestines all over the floor.” She laughed humorlessly. “Your lawyer know you're pleading self-defense? Have you called him already?” 

“I considered Will to be my friend,” Hannibal said. “I only ever wanted to help him.” Still that even tone, hypnotic in its way. _Emotionless,_ Alana thought. Hannibal paused for a few moments, then said, “Both you and Will have kept away from me.”

Alana laughed humorlessly again. “If I didn't know you better, Hannibal, I'd say you were jealous. Besides, it was our choice to stay away from you.” 

“Because you shared his beliefs about me? If that's true, you lied to me when we spoke last.”

Alana shrugged. “What do a few lies from me matter when you've been feeding them to me for years?” She shook her head. “I have always believed that the Will Graham I know is incapable of serial murder. His story about you framing him seemed implausible, and I believed, as I testified, that it was a delusion of his illness. But then he told it in court, and the judge believed him enough to throw out his indictment for five murders, and suddenly it didn't seem so implausible that someone was setting him up, that he had gotten too close to finding out the truth about someone close to him. But I wasn't sure that that person was you.” She paused. “Then one night, in spite of his misgivings, Will laid it all out for me: the truth about Abigail, the fact that you asked him to cover up Nick Boyle's murder, and the fact that you were the only one who could have planted the evidence in his house – you or me, and it wasn't me. I didn't want to believe him completely. I thought he was mistaken about you, that it was someone else framing him, that there had to be another possibility. But there was none.” She paused again. “We started our own investigation of you – your history with your patients and your attacks on them. I went to Jack with proof that Will could not have committed the murders. Things went from there.” 

Hannibal showed no emotion as she spoke, only detached interest, as if she was a patient, too. Finally, he spoke. “And you believe Will will soon be vindicated,” he said. 

“He will be vindicated, but he's lost everything. His home's gone. What little money he had is gone. His credibility's gone. His career with the FBI is over. Everything he's worked for is over. I suppose that's what you wanted, isn't it?”

Hannibal made no reply. Alana didn't expect one – didn't even want one, really. “He lives with me, on my charity, and feels guilt every day of his life because of it,” she said. 

“You took him in,” Hannibal said simply. For some reason, this statement made the anger in Alana's chest roar up even more. “Where was he supposed to go?” she asked. “Another mental hospital? A halfway house? He's _innocent._ He's not a murderer. He's not an addict. He's not even mentally ill.” 

“He's delusional, Alana, and he has convinced you his delusions are real as well. It's _folie à deux._ ”

Now rage rose in her chest, and she let it. “Don't you start that shit with me! Will is not delusional, and neither am I! He's been my patient for over a year – _I_ decide whether he's delusional or not!”

“He _is_ your patient,” Hannibal said, as if they were back in the psychiatric unit of Johns Hopkins again, as if he was still her teacher – as if he had anything to teach her. “He's a patient that you live with, that you're sleeping with, that you're in love with. It's easy to understand how his delusion could have transferred to you.”

Alana laughed again, still humorlessly. “You can't stop, can you? Everything is a game to you. You're not going to make me doubt Will anymore, not now. There's _evidence_ this time, Hannibal, not just suspicion.” 

“Your relationship with Will is unethical.” 

A shout of laughter came out of her. “ _You're_ accusing _me_ of having an unethical relationship with a patient? You almost let one die from encephalitis and then framed him for serial murder! You stabbed another one to death in your office during a session! Another ended up with a broken neck! Another's a quadriplegic with no face! What is it you're doing with these people?” 

“I often employ unorthodox methods in my practice. You know this very well.”

“And your unorthodox methods are killing patients, or, in the best cases, causing them permanent injuries. Your so-called unorthodox methods have caused unstable patients to roam the streets and hurt other people. Can you really argue that you're helping them? Can you argue that you helped Will? I've spent nearly all my time with him repairing the damage you and Chilton have done, and it's still not enough.” 

“Will has changed.”

“Yes, he has, but not in the way I think you wanted him to change, Hannibal. That's where you lost. You thought you could break him down, but he was stronger than you ever imagined.” She paused, looking at his face, trying to reconcile the monster before her with the man she'd thought she'd known...the man she thought she'd loved once. “I keep thinking back to when we worked together,” she said. “You were God to me. No one could ever say a word against you – and believe me, there were rumors even then. But I always defended you. You were a brilliant doctor and a brilliant man, and I loved you so much and I could never tell you, because why would someone like you ever love someone like me?” 

Hannibal's expression did not change. “But now your feelings have changed as well,” he said. 

“Yes, they have. Now you disgust me,” she said. “You're no doctor. You're not even a pig. You're _vermin._ ” She stretched out the last word, letting him sense her hatred. “It's not just that you're a killer – God, I can't even think about that right now. I don't even want to think about the revolting, sadistic crimes you've committed. The only thing I care about right now is that you did the worst thing you could have done to Will, your patient, who trusted you. You preyed on him because he was vulnerable. You made him think he was going insane – you made everyone, even me, think he was insane. You had everyone believing he brutally murdered five people, that he ate parts of them, that he collected trophies from them. But he never was insane, and he never killed anyone. He was just sick. And you knew and you did nothing. 

“The doctors – the real ones – at the hospital in Minnesota told me that Will's encephalitis was advanced. He'd been sick for months. He's lucky there wasn't permanent brain damage. And you tried to say that you didn't notice, and then you weren't _sure,_ that you had to wait to be _sure,_ and meanwhile Will was getting sicker. You were an ER doctor. You trained in psychiatry right here, at Johns Hopkins. You should have known what it was in five minutes, it was fucking _textbook._ I knew what it was, and I'm not half as smart as you.” 

“We all make mistakes, Alana. I've admitted in court that I mishandled his case.” His tone was so even, he might have been examining his fingernails as he spoke to her. 

“ _Mishandled,_ right. When Will was in that hellhole, Baltimore State Hospital, you kept coming to see him even though Will – and I – had requested you stay away because he was no longer your patient. You told Chilton that he had dissociative identity disorder when you knew that was a lie. You tried to convince Will that he committed the murders and that he was blaming you for his own crimes, when you knew that was a lie, too. You continued to gaslight him. That's not psychic driving, Hannibal, that's _abuse.”_

Hannibal did not answer. He only gazed at her with his controlled, inscrutable expression. 

“Why? Did it amuse you to watch him suffer? Did it make you feel powerful to see him in a cage, the rare bird for your pleasure?” 

He was still silent. 

_“Answer me, goddamn you!”_ she screamed. 

Hannibal did not flinch. His face did not change. And Alana knew, then, that she was wasting her breath. An FBI agent finally stepped in and grasped her arm to lead her back out into the hallway, but she stopped him. “I think I still had doubt as to whether or not everything I've learned about you was true,” she said. “But after what I saw tonight, I know it is. And if Will dies, I will not rest until you are cold and dead in an execution chamber. I swear it.” 

She turned her back on him and walked back out to the hallway. Jack was still there; if he'd heard Hannibal and Alana's conversation, he made no indication. Together, they walked silently back out to the waiting room. Beverly was still there, too; she got up from her seat and took a few tentative steps towards Alana. “How's Will?” she asked. 

“I don't know,” Alana said. She was about to lose it – Will's gray face swam into her mind. “I don't know,” she said again, and now the tears in her eyes were hot and she felt like she'd been stabbed in the chest herself. 

Beverly came towards her but didn't touch her. Alana was glad – she needed to be angry now, she needed to let out what she felt because if she didn't she felt like she would die from the pain of it. She was pacing, pacing, pacing in circles like she was a caged animal, not realizing it, and then she thought of Will, caged like an animal for a year of his precious life, a life that might be over soon, Hannibal's doing, his fault – 

And then she lost control and she was howling, screaming, and Beverly was hugging her and she was crying, too, Beverly who always had a joke had none for her. 

Alana sobbed against her. Beverly did not make any effort to stop her, but just rubbed her back. Finally, Alana stepped back and wiped the tears off her face. “I'm staying,” she said. “The dogs will be okay. I need to be here...I need to be here if he goes.” 

Beverly nodded. “I'll stay, too. I'm not getting any sleep tonight anyway.” 

They said goodnight to Jack, who was going home to Bella, and settled in for the night in the ICU waiting room. The nurses were kind – they brought out blankets and small pillows and little snacks and cups of tea and coffee. There was nothing to update, but they reassured Alana and Beverly that Will was doing okay. Alana and Beverly sat silently, watching stupid late-night talk shows on the television, avoiding the news. They said nothing to one another, but Alana was glad of the company. 

Alana hadn't realized she'd slept until she saw early morning light beginning to stream in through the waiting room windows. Beverly lay beside her, sleeping too. She jumped up – beside her, Beverly stirred – and ran into the ICU, seeking any news on Will. 

Will's nurse let her into his room even though it was too early for visiting hours. Alana stood by his bed and stared at him. He had lived through the night, but he looked no better than he had when she'd last seen him. He was still clinging to life. 

“Oh, my God,” she heard Beverly whisper behind her. Alana leaned over Will and kissed him on the crown of his head. 

“I heard what Lecter did,” Beverly whispered, “but to see it...” 

“I'm afraid,” Alana said, turning to her. “I'm afraid to leave him...I'm afraid I won't be here.” 

“What did his doctors say?” 

“They don't know.” She sighed. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she didn't bother to wipe them away. She remembered the words from his journal, written in hell: _If God exists, I hope he pities me and allows me to go home when I die. That's all I pray for anymore._

Her anger at Hannibal had kept her steady, but now it had dissipated. She looked at Will's face and began to weep. Sobs raked her body and she could hardly stand. 

Beverly hugged her, held her. “He's a fighter,” she said. “You know how strong he is.”

“I'm worried it might not be enough,” she whispered.

Beverly left the hospital after a summons from Jack and was gone most of the day. Alana had sat with Will during her limited visiting hours and then paced the waiting room between them. The ICU nurses had prepared more care packages with snacks for her, but she couldn't eat more than a few bites. She had never been so terrified in her entire life, not even during Will's hearing months and months ago. 

Beverly found her that evening sitting in a chair next to Will's bed and clutching his hand. Aside from her nap in the waiting room, Alana had been awake for more than a day and a half. “No change?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Alana said quietly. “He's hanging on, though.” 

Beverly rubbed her shoulders. “You need to rest. I'll take you home.”

Alana shook her head vehemently. “No, I can't leave...I can't leave him.” 

Beverly crouched by her chair. “He could be like this for weeks. You haven't slept. You haven't eaten. You need to take care of yourself.”

Alana shook her head again. “Please, Beverly. If he goes and I'm not here...” 

“There is nothing you can do,” Beverly said gently. “I know it's hard to hear that – I'd be beside myself if it were Saul lying there like that, believe me – but you have to let the doctors and nurses here take care of him.” Beverly grasped her hand. “It's Christmas Eve. Go home. Call your family and tell them what's happened. Feed the dogs. Rest. Come back in the morning.” Beverly let go of her hand and rose. “Come on. I'm here to drive you home.” 

Alana finally nodded. Beverly left the room so that Alana could say goodnight. In the last few minutes she had with Will, she spoke to him again, telling him how much she loved him, that she would be back in the morning, and to hold on for her. She kept kissing him on his head, his temples, his closed eyelids. When the nurse came in to tell her visiting hours were over, Alana gathered her things and walked out of the room. The nurse reassured her that they would call if there was any change in Will's condition. Alana made sure they had her correct phone number, and then Beverly escorted her out of the ICU. 

By the time they reached the first floor, Alana was seized by a fit of exhaustion so strong she could hardly stand. Beverly supported her as they walked to her car. A light snow was falling. She thought of what Christmas Eve should have been like – she and Will sitting together on her sofa with spiked eggnog, surrounded by the dogs, watching the snow fall outside her windows. She began to cry again. Beverly rubbed her shoulder. “We're almost there,” she said. 

“I'm okay,” Alana said through her sobs. 

“I can stay with you tonight.” 

Alana shook her head. “No, I don't want you to...you need to rest, too. You've been awake just as long as I've been.” 

They were silent until they reached Beverly's car. Beverly helped her inside, then started the car and turned on the heater. For the first time since she had left home, Alana checked her cell phone. Her parents had called her. She listened to a message from her father saying he hoped she was all right and having a good Christmas. There was no other message from him, so she wasn't sure if he knew what had happened. 

“Was Hannibal's arrest on the news?” she asked Beverly.

“Not yet,” Beverly said. “The FBI's been keeping it quiet since they're still building the case, but it's amazing nothing's leaked yet given the amount of police activity. It's probably because of the holiday.” 

“I have to call my father.”

“You can if you want,” Beverly said. She was heading out of the hospital complex towards Baltimore. “Unless you want privacy.” 

“No, it's okay,” Alana said. “It's getting late. I need to call.” She found her parents' number in her contact list and called them. 

It was a long and emotional call. Alana's mother picked up at first, and she was angry that Alana hadn't been in touch for Christmas. Alana cut her off and said she needed to speak to both her parents. After her father was in the room and her mother had put the call on speaker, she told them everything – the truth about Will's false arrest, the safe house, Hannibal's attack, and Will's injuries. “If you don't believe me,” Alana said at the end of her story, “my colleague from the FBI is driving me home right now. She'll back up everything I told you.” 

“I believe you,” her father said. 

“I'm sorry I didn't call earlier,” she said. Her head ached from crying – she had started sobbing again when she told them about Will. “I haven't been thinking straight.”

“It's all right,” her father said. 

“I'm going back to the hospital tomorrow,” she said. “Will's still in critical condition.”

“What have the doctors said?” her mother asked. 

“They don't know what will happen.” She sighed. “I don't even want to leave him tonight, but I have to. The ICU only gives me a few hours a day with him.”

“Lana, honey, you sound exhausted,” her father said. “Call us in the morning, all right?” 

“All right.”

“Lana,” her mother said. “I'm sorry about Thanksgiving. If you need something, give us a call.”

Tears had filled her eyes again. “Okay, Mom,” she said. 

“Good night, honey,” her father said. “We love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she said, trying to control her voice. She hung up the phone. She noticed that she was almost home, and spent the rest of the trip in silence. Beverly didn't force her to talk. 

Her tears had stopped by the time Beverly had parked in her driveway. “I think I can get out okay,” Alana said. 

Beverly nodded. “I'll stay until you're inside.” 

“Thank you, Beverly. Thank you for everything.” 

Beverly nodded. Alana could see she was exhausted and drained, as well. “Call me if you need anything,” Beverly said. “I'll see you in a few days.” She paused. “And if anything happens with Will, let me know, okay?” 

Alana nodded. Beverly reached over and hugged her; they held onto each other for a while before Alana broke the embrace. “Go home,” Alana said. 

“I will. I'm not far.” 

Alana picked up her purse and exited the car. Beverly watched as she unlocked the door and went inside, the dogs greeting her anxiously as she walked in. Once Alana had managed to turn on the light, she heard Beverly drive away. 

Numbness had set in again; she felt it as she glanced around her house. There was pee on her carpet but she was too tired to clean it up. She fed the dogs, let them out in the yard for a short time since it was snowing, and then went back inside, locking up and going upstairs. The dogs trailed her and she waited for Ike at the top of the stairs, as she always did. 

She took off her boots, stripped off her clothes, and then lay in bed naked, wanting to sleep through it all, for good or ill. Missy and Charlie joined her on the bed. On Will's side of the bed, Winston lay down with Sammy – his girlfriend, Will always said, since the two dogs had bonded deeply – next to him. Alana patted the bed and the other three dogs joined them. She pulled Will's pillow towards her and smelled it, trying to get the barest hint of him, but the numbness had dulled her senses, too. She hugged the pillow to her chest. She waited for the tears to return, but there was nothing left for now, only a dark pit of grief that she was afraid to wander near – afraid that she would have to wander near. 

When she woke, it was the middle of the night. There were no messages on her phone. Alana thought about calling Johns Hopkins but she knew they would have nothing to tell her. She put on her warm pajamas and went downstairs to lie on the sofa, still clutching Will's pillow to her chest. She turned on the TV and cuddled with Missy. Charlie sat next to her on the sofa, whimpering; he must have noticed her distress. She pet his back and tried to soothe him. Ike and Winston came as if they sensed her need, snuffling her knees and feet with their wet noses. Sammy and Leo lay on the floor near her. She was glad, as she often was, that the dogs were here. 

She drifted off again, _A Christmas Story_ playing in the background, her cell phone silent next to her.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

The next afternoon, as she was sitting in the ICU waiting room back at Johns Hopkins, Alana started receiving text messages and calls from her friends and colleagues – the news of Hannibal's arrest had leaked. The FBI was not naming Hannibal as their suspect in the Ripper murders, but since he was known to Johns Hopkins staff and was under FBI guard, it didn't take long for someone to put two and two together and leak the information to the Johns Hopkins medical community. 

Alana debated what to say for a while: should she confirm the rumors? Was she allowed to? Then it occurred to her that she no longer worked for the FBI and hadn't been sworn to secrecy – their plan had ended, so there was no need to keep it secret any longer. She finally updated her Facebook page in an effort to alleviate the calls and texts, which she didn't have the energy to answer individually. She focused her update on Will, stating that he had been brutally attacked by Hannibal and was in the ICU. She struggled over what to say about Hannibal, finally deciding just to write, “As for my former friend, he has betrayed us all – his friends, patients, and colleagues in the medical community – in ways that we are only beginning to discover.” 

She was surprised at the kindness and support of her friends and colleagues. Her friend Jenny called, and Alana cried with her again, sitting on the floor of the ladies' room with her head on her knees. Jenny even offered to drive up to the hospital and stay with her, but Alana refused – it was Christmas, after all, and Jenny had a partner and a family of her own. 

But Alana bonded with the other families in the waiting room. There was something profoundly sad and desperate about spending Christmas in a trauma ICU that they all shared. Most of the patients there had been in terrible accidents, but there were two other families of young people who had been shot or stabbed. Alana knew, rationally, that Will was just as badly injured as any of them – perhaps worse – but listening to the other families helped ease the ache in her chest slightly. 

By the evening visiting hour, Will's temperature had risen significantly. Alana sat with him, stroking his hair off his clammy forehead and swearing that she would buy him whatever he wanted for Christmas as soon as he woke. Had he been awake, he would have laughed and put his arm around her, and probably kissed her temple fondly, but he made no response. He didn't even blink an eyelid. At the end of the hour, she kissed him again, told him how much she loved him, and told him to hold on. It was becoming a mantra. 

She drove home, the highway unusually quiet, and sat with the dogs until she fell asleep on the sofa. Will's pillow was still with her, and _A Christmas Story_ was still playing on the television. 

 

The day after Christmas, more details leaked to the media. The FBI was still calling Hannibal a person of interest in the Chesapeake Ripper case, but did confirm that he had been arrested under capital murder and attempted murder charges, including attacks on FBI agents. And since Hannibal had delivered a deposition at Will's first hearing, the link between them was exposed by a search of court records. As the news cycle progressed into the next day, the media dug more, and Will's sensational testimony about someone framing him for multiple murders was reexamined. By that evening, the fact that he was in the ICU at Johns Hopkins Hospital and not in federal prison at Devens had been leaked. 

It was then that Will received a security detail outside of his room, but not to protect him from Hannibal, who had already been moved out of the ICU. The security detail was there to protect him from curious people that were attempting to sneak into the ICU under false pretenses. They asked Alana to make a list of acceptable visitors, but she couldn't think of anyone to put on it besides Beverly, who could already enter with her FBI credentials alone. 

The following afternoon, Alana was visiting with Will when the agent guarding his room came inside. “There's a priest out in the waiting room who's asking to see you,” he said. “He says he's from Baltimore State Hospital.”

“He wants to see _me?_ ” Alana asked. 

The agent nodded. Alana let go of Will's hand and left the room, walking out to the waiting room. An older man was standing there in a collared black suit – a Catholic priest's garb. He smiled kindly when he saw Alana. 

“You're Father Stephen, aren't you?” she asked. 

He nodded. “Yes, Dr. Bloom. I heard about what happened to Will. I apologize for not coming earlier; I've heard you've had trouble with unwanted visitors and it was difficult to get in, even as clergy.” 

“I didn't know,” Alana said. “I would have let you come. Will's told me about how much you helped him.” 

“How is he?” Father Stephen asked. 

Alana shook her head. “He's holding on.” It suddenly occurred to her why Father Stephen might be here, what the doctors and nurses might have told him. “I don't want Last Rites,” she said. 

Father Stephen nodded his head once, respectfully. “I came only to pray for Will in his time of need, and to offer my assistance, if you request it.”

Alana considered it. Will had told her about his friendship with the priest, and how he had been one of the few people who believed him, one of the few who could see Hannibal for what he was, even then. Father Stephen obviously had remarkable perception. “Okay,” she said, nodding.

She walked with Father Stephen back to Will's room. The agent let him in and Alana asked for an extra chair for him. 

Father Stephen walked up to Will's bedside and lay a hand on the top of his head. The act was filled with such kindness and fondness that Alana's eyes filled again with the tears that were always close. She swallowed hard. “He's fighting,” she said. 

Father Stephen turned to her. “He's strong,” he said quietly. 

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asked. 

“I've only heard rumors,” Father Stephen said. “There's a lot of speculation going on from Dr. Chilton and his staff.” 

“Dr. Lecter did this,” Alana said. A tear fell down her cheek and she wiped it away impatiently. “He came to the apartment where Will was staying during the FBI investigation.” She sighed, wiping away more tears. “I was there. Will was protecting me. He made sure I was able to call for help.” She began to cry again, harder than she'd cried in days. The weight of her own guilt was stifling her. 

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,” Father Stephen murmured, still stroking Will's hair. He turned to Alana. “What he did, he did out of his great love for you,” he said. “He wouldn't want you to feel guilty.” 

Alana nodded, still crying. Her mind flashed back, as it had countless times, to the scene in Will's apartment: his pale, struggling face, his terribly wounded body, his words to her. _I didn't want him to hurt you. Don't blame yourself._

But she did blame herself. If she had taken the shot earlier, trusted herself more, Will might not have been hurt at all. She thought of Jack, harassing Will after he'd shot Hobbs. _The reason you used to work homicide is because you didn't have the stomach to pull the trigger._ Will had been angry and hurt by his words, but he had never allowed that hurt to cross his face. She began to cry harder. She was losing it. 

Father Stephen was watching her patiently. “This is not your fault, Dr. Bloom,” he said quietly. 

She shook her head. “No, no...he was protecting me. I should have fought harder. I ran away.” She tried to regain control, but the floodgates had opened. 

The priest took a few steps towards her. “You called for help,” he said. “Because of your actions, and Will's actions, both of you are alive and a monster is put away where he belongs.” He turned his head and nodded towards Will. “He's strong, but he needs your strength, too.” 

Alana nodded and wiped away her tears. Father Stephen walked closer to her. “I've been at the bedsides of many dying people,” he said quietly. “And while we don't know Will's fate for sure, the fact that he's still here, after all he's been through, is very important. Those doctors probably told you they didn't think he would live through the night, correct?”

“They didn't say as much, but yes,” she said. 

“And yet he's lived through five nights. Five long nights, and five long days.” He smiled. “And with God's grace, he will live for many days and nights yet to come.” 

Alana nodded. 

“I believe God has left him alive for a reason. But I would like to help him and pray for him nonetheless.” He put an arm behind her shoulder and guided her back to Will's side without touching her. 

“The ritual you know as Last Rites has three steps,” he said. “The Eucharist, or preparation for the journey, is reserved for those whose death is likely. The first two are acceptable for those who are dangerously ill.” 

Alana remembered back to when her grandmother, the old Alana Bloom, was dying of cancer. A priest had come to her bedside and performed Last Rites. She had died only a few hours later. 

Alana looked up at Father Stephen, who stood still and patient at Will's bedside. “I'm scared,” she whispered. “My grandmother...” She didn't know what compelled her to talk about that, but something about the priest's presence felt comforting and safe to her. She could see why Will, who rarely trusted anyone, had trusted him. 

“I will absolve Will of his sins and pray with you for his recovery,” Father Stephen said. “I will not prepare him for the journey unless you ask me to.” 

Alana nodded her consent. 

The priest walked back over to Will's bedside, bent over him, and spoke the words of the ritual. “God the Father of mercies,” he said, “through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” At the last, he crossed his fingers over Will's prone body. 

Alana thought again of her grandmother, and the pain of her death felt fresh, as if it had just happened. She cried again. 

“I can stop if this is too painful for you,” Father Stephen said softly.

Alana shook her head. “No. Keep going.” 

Father Stephen reached inside his coat pocket and removed a bottle. He poured something from the bottle onto his fingers – oil, Alana remembered. He rubbed the oil in the shape of a cross on Will's forehead and said, “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.” He then took each of Will's hands and anointed them as well, saying, “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

Father Stephen then turned to Alana. “Will you pray with me?” he asked her. She nodded, and he indicated that she should sit back in her chair at Will's side. Father Stephen took the other chair and moved it to the opposite side of Will's bed. He sat down, grasped one of Will's hands, and then reached across Will's legs to grasp one of hers. Alana did the same on her side, so that both of them held one of Will's hands. 

Father Stephen led the prayer. “O most holy apostle, Saint Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, worker of miracles, the Church honors and invokes thee universally, as the patron of hopeless cases, and of things almost despaired of. Pray for your sister Alana, who is so miserable. 

“Make use, I implore thee, of that particular privilege accorded to thee, to bring visible and speedy help where help was almost despaired of. Come to Alana's assistance in this great need, that she may receive the consolation and succor of Heaven in all her necessities, tribulations, and sufferings, particularly the healing of her beloved Will, who is thy friend, and that she may praise God with thee and all the elect throughout eternity. She promises thee, O blessed Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favor, and to always honor thee as her special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to thee. Amen.”

“Amen,” Alana repeated, and crossed herself, as she had learned to do as a child. She lifted her head and looked at Father Stephen, who was gazing at her with his clear, keen eyes. She stared back. She didn't feel offended or uncomfortable under his gaze – in fact, it reminded her of Will's. Father Stephen was also a man who saw the truth of people. She wasn't surprised at all that he had managed to see Hannibal for what he was. 

“Will loves you very much, you know,” the priest said. 

“And I love him,” Alana said quietly. She was still grasping Will's hand in hers. 

“Love is what brings us to God,” he said. “I know you're very angry about what's happened, but don't let that fester in your heart. Focus on your love for Will and hope for his recovery.” 

Alana nodded. _He needs to recover,_ she thought. _I'm afraid of what I'll become if he dies._

Father Stephen's soft voice broke into her thoughts. “Your necklace is lovely,” he said. “Is it an antique?”

“Yes,” Alana said, unconsciously touching it. “It was my grandmother's. She gave it to me before she died.” Alana remembered visiting her grandmother, whose renowned beauty had been stolen by cancer, and the old Alana Bloom's soft voice directing her to her jewelry box. “Take the sea star before your cousins do,” she'd said. “I always meant to give it to you.” The statement had made Alana sad – her grandmother had known even then what would happen after she died. Alana put on the necklace in front of her, and her grandmother had smiled. “It's beautiful on you,” she'd said, and her tired eyes had filled with tears. 

Father Stephen's voice broke through into the memory. “The sea star is a symbol of the Virgin Mary.”

“Stella Maris,” Alana said. “Star of the Sea.” 

Father Stephen smiled. “It's an appropriate piece for you,” he said. “A guide for the lost sailor.” 

Alana laid her hand on Will's head and stared at his pale face. He hadn't moved. “Not so lost any more,” she whispered. “But often far away.” 

Father Stephen rose from his chair and walked toward her. “You and Will will be in my prayers,” he said softly. 

“Thank you for coming,” she said. He gave her a prayer card with a picture of St. Jude and another card with his contact information. “If you should need anything, Dr. Bloom, please contact me,” he said. 

Alana nodded. He wished her a good evening and left. A few minutes later, Alana went out and asked for some tape at the nurses' station. She went back into Will's room, tape in hand, and taped the prayer card on the wall next to his bed. 

 

Ten more days passed. Alana seriously considered taking a leave of absence from work, but she knew Will wouldn't have wanted that. So, in the time she had after work, she made the drive to Baltimore, much as she had when he was at Baltimore State Hospital, and spent the evening hour with him. She looked forward to her days off because she could spend more time with him. He had survived three additional surgeries, including an emergency surgery for a case of pancreatitis that had left him with a high fever and a swollen belly. He continued to be at high risk for infection, and sepsis and pneumonia were her constant worries now. 

She also made a few trips to Quantico to speak with Jack. Though Bella was extremely ill, the Chesapeake Ripper had been the case of his career, and Jack, as much as he loved his wife, couldn't stay away. The FBI was busy building their case against Hannibal, who was in solitary confinement in county lockup awaiting his arraignment. His capital murder charges were already in the double digits, and his felony charges would likely number into the hundreds. He was also being investigated for other unsolved murders and disappearances in the Baltimore area dating back to his days at John Hopkins. Jack had asked her how many murders she thought Hannibal had committed, and Alana told him that Will had speculated Hannibal had been killing for many years. “You'll never get them all, Jack,” she said. “Focus on the ones you _can_ get.” 

Jack's eagerness disturbed her. Maybe it was because Bella was dying and he needed something to get his mind off of it, but he was completely obsessed with the Ripper case, to the point where he called Alana all the way in to Quantico about Will's laptop. Since it had been at the safe house, it had been seized as evidence. Lloyd, the computer forensics expert, had cracked the password easily enough – it was “Alana” and the date he had been released from Baltimore State Hospital – but he had found that all of Will's files on the Chesapeake Ripper and on Hannibal himself were heavily encrypted. Lloyd believed Will had encrypted his files on purpose, to avoid anyone who might have hacked into his computer from reading them. “Any leaks to Freddie Lounds never came from him,” Lloyd said, a touch of admiration in his voice. Alana carefully kept her face neutral. 

“Will you be able to get anything?” Jack asked him. 

“Maybe,” Lloyd said. “I had no idea someone like Will Graham had this kind of skill. This is serious shit.” 

Jack turned to her. “Alana, did he tell you anything that might help? Does he have a safe-deposit box, a secret drawer, anything hidden?” 

“Not that I know of,” she said. 

“He had to have left something, though, in case he was killed or incapacitated. He wouldn't want his work to go to waste.” 

Alana didn't reply. _He wasn't feeling all that generous towards you,_ she thought. She was angry that Jack had made her drive to Quantico for nothing; she could have spoken to him about this over the phone. Then she had an idea. “Will's old laptop is still in evidence, right?” 

“It should be,” Lloyd said. “His case is still technically under investigation.” 

“Maybe there's something in it that can help.” 

Once Will's old laptop had been pulled, Lloyd discovered that he had used the same encryption key on both sets of files. It took Lloyd a while to crack it, but once he did, the FBI had access to all of Will's work for the past five years. Jack's calls to Alana stopped after that. He'd gotten what he wanted. 

But Alana was surprised to find she felt bitter, not relieved. Will deserved the lion's share of the credit for catching Lecter – the FBI was building the case off of his, Freddie's, and her own hard work – but she knew he would never receive anything. In the wake of Lecter's arrest, Jack had ascended to godlike status within the FBI: he was now a tragic hero who, in spite of his dying wife, prevailed and caught the most wanted and dangerous serial killer in the region. Meanwhile, no one from the FBI save Beverly and Price ever asked about Will's condition, and Beverly was the only one of his former colleagues who ever came to visit him. 

“I shouldn't be surprised at Jack's behavior, really, but I am,” Beverly said as they ate lunch together in the hospital cafeteria. 

“I've never heard you speak about him like that before,” Alana said. 

“I used to worship Jack,” Beverly said. “I mean, I still respect him a lot, don't get me wrong. There's a reason why he's head of the BAU. But between his bungling of Will's case, and him having Lecter around all the time, and now him basically stealing all of Will's work...I just never thought he'd be so petty.” 

“I think he's eager to save face,” Alana said, even though she agreed with her. 

“More than eager,” Beverly said. “His ass is on fire. He reeks of desperation. I can't even stand to be in the office lately.”

Alana sighed. “I can't even imagine what the last year and a half must have been like over there.” 

Beverly was silent for a while. Finally, she sighed. “I don't want to say this out loud because it's going to sound horrible.”

“You can say it.” 

“I think part of him – maybe it's a small part, or maybe it's a bigger part – is happy Lecter got sloppy and was caught. Whatever the size, I think that part of him is bigger than the part that cares that Will almost died.” 

“I told Hannibal Jack was grooming Will to catch him,” Alana said. “I feel responsible for all of this.” Tears filled her eyes – it was something she had been thinking for a long time, but had never voiced to anyone except for Will. 

“Jack's got his own part,” Beverly said. “Don't forget that.” She paused. “I think he thinks of us as a pack of hunting dogs. We have to work together to catch the big game, you know? But sometimes a dog is lost in the hunt. The hunter mourns the dog a little, regroups the other dogs, and then moves on to the next hunt.” She looked distressed. “I don't know if that came out right. I'm sorry.”

“I understood you perfectly,” Alana said. “And I completely agree with you.” 

Alana was used to being Will's rock, as much as he had become hers, in his way, and she continued to be, even while he was unconscious. When she could, she stayed by his side, stroking his hair and face, talking to him, reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ to him. He was still heavily sedated, still on a ventilator. But there was eventually a sense that Will had turned a corner, although Alana couldn't pinpoint exactly when it was: though Will was still very sick, the doctors sounded more optimistic and told her that he needed time. For now, they kept Will sedated to keep him still and because, if he was awake, the pain would be unbearable. Disembowelment was a method of torture. Hannibal had wanted Will to suffer; he always had. He enjoyed watching Will suffer. _If he were here now,_ Alana thought as she stroked Will's arm, _he'd be sniffing the scent of blood and pain on the air, savoring it like wine._

There would be plenty of suffering to savor where he was going, but at least there would be no more wine. 

 

One Friday morning, as she was visiting with Will, Jack called her. “I heard that Will kept a journal during his last months at Baltimore State Hospital.”

“Yes, he did,” Alana said, rising from her seat and walking towards the windows. Snow flurries were falling outside. “He gave it to me on his court date, when he thought he might never see me again. There's very little about Hannibal in it, if that's what you're looking for. Will wanted me to know as little as possible about Hannibal.”

“I want everything he wrote about Dr. Lecter, no matter how inconsequential.”

Alana was aghast. She wanted to yell at him. _How dare you demand that?_ she thought. _You've taken everything else. What more do you want?_

Finally, she took a breath to steady herself. “That journal's _mine,_ Jack. It's a personal correspondence from my patient to me. I can argue that doctor-patient confidentiality protects it.”

“I can get a court order.”

“Then get one, you son of a bitch!” she yelled, finally losing it. “Stop threatening me! If you want it, drag your ass to court and see if they'll give you a warrant!” Then she hung up on him and turned off her phone. One of Will's nurses, Michelle, came into the room and stood over him. 

“I'm sorry,” Alana said. “I didn't mean to yell --”

“It's all right. He's responding to your voice.” Michelle rubbed Will's shoulder and smiled at him. “That's good.” 

“What?” Alana said in disbelief. She walked back over to Will, who was fluttering his eyelids as if he was trying to open his eyes. “He can't wake,” Michelle said, “but he's not as deeply sedated as he's been. He can definitely hear you.” 

Alana grasped his hand. “Will, baby, I'm sorry for startling you,” she said. “I was yelling at Jack.” She sighed. “I miss you, but I want you to rest and get better. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you.” 

She waited for a response, but there was none. “I think he's asleep again,” Michelle said. 

Alana sighed. “I'm just glad he's doing better.” 

“Are you all right?” Michelle asked. 

Alana struggled to hold back her tears. “No,” she said, finally. “No, I'm not.” She ran a hand through her hair impatiently. 

“Do you want to talk? I know you're a psychiatrist and so you know more about these things than I do, but maybe it would help just to talk.”

Alana smiled at her, touched by her kindness. “Don't underestimate yourself,” she said. She sat down in her recliner next to Will and grasped his hand again. “How much do you know about him?” she asked.

“They've talked about him a lot on the news,” Michelle said. “But I work so much I can't get the story straight.” 

“It's a hard story to get straight,” Alana said. “The man I was just yelling at on the phone was Will's old supervisor. Will used to work for the FBI, as a teacher and profiler. He was fantastic, the best in a generation at least. That's where we met. I used to work there, too.”

Michelle nodded, but she was silent.

“But I made a terrible mistake. Will needed a psychological evaluation, and I recommended my old mentor, Dr. Lecter. Their relationship was only supposed to be temporary, but Will shot someone in the field, and he started seeing Dr. Lecter more often.” She sighed. “Will was my friend and I wanted him to have the best of care. I didn't know what Dr. Lecter really was, or what he would do to him.” 

“What did he do? I heard it involved prison and murder charges.”

“Dr. Lecter framed him for five murders. Will spent more than a year in Baltimore State Hospital. He was with murderers and child rapists and torturers – the sickest people you can imagine. His doctor there drugged him out of his mind. He was a shell of himself when he was released.” Alana squeezed his hand. “He was going to plead guilty to the murders. He didn't commit them – he was innocent – but he was going to do it because I asked him to. I didn't want him to go to trial and be sentenced to death.” 

Michelle's face had gone pale. “I wouldn't believe it either, if it wasn't the truth,” Alana said. “By some miracle, the judge let him go. He wouldn't let Will plead. And Will's been with me ever since.” 

“Oh, my God,” Michelle whispered.

“If anyone calls him a murderer, send them to me,” Alana said. “I'll set them straight. Will never killed anyone. He won't hurt anyone here. He's a good person who was taken advantage of by a very, very bad person, the worst kind of person. But he's survived everything – a rare form of encephalitis, a year in solitary confinement, and now this. We have spent thousands of dollars and almost a year clearing his name, and he's going to walk out of this hospital alive and a free man. I believe it.” 

Telling the story had steadied her in a way nothing else had. For weeks, Alana had felt she was perpetually on the edge of cracking into pieces from grief and anger. She had cried until there were no tears left, until her sobs had turned into moans. But now, something felt different. She thought of Will's eyelids fluttering, of the fact that he had finally shown some signs of life, of the feeling of his warm hand in hers. _He is going to live,_ Alana thought. _And Hannibal Lecter will be sorry for it._

 

The next afternoon, Beverly had come by to visit with her and Will. They had eaten a delicious packed lunch from Saul and were waiting for the evening visiting hour when Alana's phone rang. “It's the ICU,” Alana said as she checked the caller ID. 

“Oh, God.” Beverly had gone pale. 

“Hello?” Alana said, rising up from her seat and walking out into the hallway. She felt nauseous. The last time they had called her, Will was being rushed in for emergency surgery. 

“Is this Dr. Bloom?”

“Yes, this is Dr. Bloom.” She tried to keep her voice even, but her heart was in her throat. 

“This is Kelly, one of the nurses here in ICU. We wanted to tell you that Mr. Graham woke up.” 

Alana noticed she was trembling. “He did?” Beverly had come out into the hallway, still pale. 

“Yes, just for a few minutes. He was responsive but in a lot of pain, so he's been sedated again.” 

“Was he trying to breathe on his own?” Alana asked. Beverly sighed visibly at this question; she had placed a hand over her mouth. 

“Yes, he was fighting the tube a bit, but we calmed him down. He's resting comfortably now.” 

“Thank you for calling me, Kelly. I really appreciate it. Please let me know if there's any other change.” 

“You're welcome, Dr. Bloom.” 

Alana hung up and turned to Beverly. “He was awake,” she said. Suddenly, she was weeping and she couldn't control it. She felt as if there had been a stone on her chest for weeks and now it had moved just a bit and she could breathe. 

Beverly hugged her and then snuck her into the ladies' room to clean her up. 

 

The nurses were cheerier than usual that evening. “You never told us he had such nice eyes,” Kelly said. She had gloves on and a stack of bandages in her hand. “They were talking about Mr. Graham on the news. Dr. Lecter's been moved to Baltimore State Hospital. They sent him there with half the Baltimore police force.”

Alana nodded. “He's where he belongs, in a cage.” _Hope they gild it for him._

Kelly nodded towards Will. “I need to change his bandages and examine the wound. Normally I'd have to ask you to leave, but I know you want to see if he'll wake again.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I'll raise his sedative. He'll probably respond to the pain. If he does, just let him know you're here. He'll be glad to hear your voice.” 

Kelly adjusted the dosage levels on Will's IV and loosened the surgical binder on his abdomen, and then Alana steeled herself as the nurse began to slowly and carefully cut and peel off the bandages. Alana hadn't seen the wound since the night Hannibal had given it to him. Kelly exposed an ugly wound that curved around his abdomen from just above his left hip to the right side of his ribcage and was held closed by thick black sutures. Alana could see the stoma that the surgeons had made during his colostomy. Hannibal's cut had sliced his bowels into pieces. 

“I don't know if it's quite right to call him lucky,” Kelly said quietly. “I think there's more to him than that. Many of us here have never seen a wound like this and we've seen some brutal things.”

“So have I,” Alana said.

“He's healing well,” Kelly said. “No signs of infection for a while now.” She carefully cleaned and irrigated the wound, and then gently palpated his abdomen. Will stirred at her touch and let out a groan of pain. Alana gripped his hand. “Will, it's me, it's Alana,” she said. “The nurse is just checking your wound and changing your bandages. It'll be over soon.” 

Will opened his eyes. He didn't seem to have much control over his gaze: he was able to look in Alana's direction but was having trouble focusing on her. 

Kelly spoke then. “Will, can you give Alana's hand a squeeze if you can hear us? A big one, strong as you can make it, all right?” 

“Come on, baby,” Alana said. She held his hand more firmly and rubbed it with her other hand. Will squeezed. 

“Good job!” said Kelly. “You're a strong one. Give her one more if you can. She's been waiting a long time.” 

Will squeezed again. Alana wanted to leap from her chair and do _something_ – cover his face in kisses, run down the hallway whooping in joy, maybe both – but she stayed in her seat. 

“Good job, Will,” Kelly said. “You're doing really well. Keep squeezing Alana's hand, okay?” The nurse finished her work, replacing his bandages, checking his vitals, and adjusting his IVs, while Will squeezed Alana's hand every so often until he fell asleep again. Alana just squeezed back – she was without words.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Will woke slowly. He was taken off the ventilator two days after he woke up, and Alana was hoping he'd finally be able to talk to her. But more often than not, he would just be able to speak a few words to her and squeeze her hand before he fell back asleep under a haze of analgesics. Half the time, his conversation didn't make much sense, but Alana was happy just to hear his voice and to have him be somewhat responsive. 

Jack wanted to question Will as soon as he was able; it had been nearly a month since Hannibal had been arrested, and he needed to get Will's statement about the attack. But Will was in pain when he was awake: his condition was often a balance between managing his pain and allowing him to be awake at all. 

Will had been off the ventilator for more than a week and was much more lucid when Alana finally broached the subject with him. “Jack wants to talk to you,” she said. 

Will nodded slowly; the painkillers made him dizzy. “I'm sure he does,” he said. “You can tell him to come tonight.” His voice was quiet and hoarse. 

Alana shook her head. “I'm not sure if you're strong enough yet to submit to questioning.” She sighed. “Especially Jack's kind of questioning.” 

“I just want it to be over.” He paused. “Do you know if they found anything in Lecter's house?” 

“I know they searched it, but I didn't hear about them finding anything.”

“You would definitely have heard if they found what I think is there.” Alana asked him what it was, but he just shook his head slowly. He didn't want to tell her. 

Kelly, who was still Will's nurse a few days a week, told him that she would level off his pain medications so that he would be more alert when Jack came. She also readjusted the bed so Will was sitting up at a steeper incline. She did it slowly, but the movement was clearly still agonizing – she urged Will to take deep breaths every time she made an adjustment, and Alana let him grip her hand. 

After he was sitting up a little, it took him a few minutes, and encouragement from Alana and Kelly, to calm himself again. He had broken out into a fine sweat from the pain of being moved. “I don't want you to push yourself,” Alana said. “If you can't do any more, just say stop. Jack can come back another time.” 

Will nodded, taking deep breaths. “Can you stay?” he asked her. 

“I'm not leaving you,” she said. 

“Your respiration's up,” Kelly said to Will. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

“A little,” he said. 

“If you want, I can give you some oxygen and that will ease things a bit.” Will nodded. Kelly placed an oxygen mask on his face and urged him to breathe normally. Will laid his head back and grasped Alana's hand. Kelly checked his vitals and then left the room, leaving Will and Alana alone. 

Alana knew Will would have trouble speaking with the mask on his face, and a haze of tiredness was settling back over his eyes. “Rest until Jack gets here,” she said as she ran her hand through his hair. “I'll wake you.” 

Will nodded and was asleep within a few minutes. 

Jack showed up at eight, alone. Alana was reminded of Beverly's words when she saw him. On the one hand, having almost lost Will, Alana could empathize with his grief over Bella. On the other, though, she still hadn't forgotten how rarely Jack had called to check on Will's condition and how little he seemed to genuinely care about him. Alana choked down her feelings of resentment and tried to be civil with him as she walked with him into the ICU and toward Will's room. 

Michelle had returned as Will's nurse at the seven o'clock shift change. She came into the room with them. Will was still sleeping soundly, still wearing the oxygen mask, when they entered the room. Alana began to shake his shoulder gently to wake him. More than half of her was hoping she wouldn't be able to rouse him – she'd have to force Jack out of the room with a _Sorry, he's asleep, you'll have to question him again later, how about a month from now?_ – but he began to respond to her and, soon enough, opened his eyes. 

Michelle removed his oxygen mask and slipped a nasal cannula over his head. “If you need anything, call me, okay?” she said, both to Will and Alana. Alana nodded. 

“What time is it?” Will asked groggily.

“It's eight. Jack's here.” 

Jack walked around the bed and took a seat on the opposite side from where Alana always sat. “Hello, Will,” Jack said. “How are you feeling?” He seemed sincere enough. Will shrugged in reply. 

“With your permission, I'd like to record your statement,” Jack said. Will nodded, and they waited while Jack set up a small camera on Will's meal tray and pointed it at him. “This is Special Agent Jack Crawford,” he said. “It's 8:18 PM on January 19 and I am recording Will Graham's statement. Dr. Alana Bloom is also present.” He paused. “All right, Will,” he said. “I want you to start when Dr. Lecter came to your safe house in Baltimore.”

“I don't remember what time it was,” Will said quietly.

“That's all right. We've got detailed records on that. How did he get in?” 

“He knocked,” Will said. “It wasn't the right knock, though. The agents and I had a pattern set up so I would know if it was safe to come to the door. That's how I figured it was him. I told Alana to get her purse and coat and go into my bedroom to call you.” 

Jack nodded. “What happened next?”

“After Alana was in the bedroom, I answered the door and Lecter was there in the hallway. He asked to come in, and I didn't want to let on that Alana was there with me, so I let him in.”

“Did you have any weapon?” 

“I was unarmed,” Will said. “Alana took her gun in the room with her.” 

Jack nodded, indicating to Will that he should continue. “Lecter spoke first. He made some kind of remark, something like, 'It's good to see you're not in prison again.' I didn't say anything at first, and then I told him he made a big mistake coming there. He didn't seem concerned. I asked him what happened to the agents downstairs, and he told me he killed them.” Will sighed. “I asked him why, and he said they were in the way. He was nonchalant...cavalier. I couldn't believe the risk he had taken to get to me. Lecter doesn't take risks like that...or, at least, I thought he didn't.”

“It was sloppy,” Jack said.

“Very sloppy.” Will continued. “I asked him how he found me, and he said the agent tracking him had told him everything: that my arrest was faked, that I was hiding out in Baltimore, and that he was the real suspect.” He paused. “I don't know what he did to the guy, but it probably wasn't pleasant.” 

Alana looked at Jack. She knew he knew what had happened to the agent, but he didn't want to feed Will information. She knew this recording would likely be played in court as evidence. 

Will spoke again. “Then I asked him if he was going to kill me, and he said yes.”

“I heard this part of their conversation,” Alana said, “and what happened after.” 

Jack nodded at her. “What happened next, Will?” 

“We started fighting. I don't remember who attacked first, honestly...all I could think about was protecting Alana, not letting him get to her. The fight is blurry. I remember hits to the face, furniture smashing. Then he asked me where Alana was. I didn't want him to know she was in the bedroom, so I told him she wasn't there. He called me a liar and called out for her. He said he could smell her.” 

Jack nodded, silently. He was rubbing his lip. 

“We started fighting harder. I was still trying to buy Alana time to call for help. But Lecter got me in a chokehold and was cutting off my airway. I didn't see the knife until it was too late.”

“He had it concealed?”

“He must have. He put my back against his chest and cut me open.” Will paused. Alana squeezed his hand. “Everything's a blur after that. The pain was terrible...I can't even describe it. Lecter said something to me...I think he was trying to comfort me. He kissed me on the cheek and started lowering me to the floor. The blood was gushing out of my stomach. I knew I was going to die.” Will's eyes had filled with tears. Alana wished Jack would make him stop, but he said nothing. 

“I think I tried to get up again,” Will said. “I had to stop him, however I could. That's when I saw Alana.”

Jack nodded.

“She had her gun out. I heard two gunshots. Lecter fell to the ground.” He paused again. Alana could see he was growing tired. “She stood over him with her gun still out, and I told her not to finish him off.”

“Why?” Jack asked. 

“She had stopped him. I was afraid the police would see it as murder if she shot him again.” He paused for a long time. 

“So you told her not to shoot him any more?”

Will nodded. “That's when the police got there.” Alana noticed he had left out her refusal to do what he asked. She had also left that out of her own statement – it had seemed too personal, too intimate a thing to say in a room full of cops and FBI agents and crime scene technicians. 

“Do you remember anything else?” Jack asked. “Anything we should know about?”

“No,” Will said. Jack stopped the recording. “Your statement, along with Alana's, should be enough to charge Lecter with attempted murder,” he said. 

Will was silent. _Just another charge to add to the very long list_ , Alana thought. She felt strangely empty, not vindicated at all. It didn't seem to be enough, not for what he'd put Will through...her through. 

Jack sighed. “It's going to be difficult to prosecute him as the Ripper. What we've got is only circumstantial – mostly that he came in brief contact with the victims. It doesn't prove much.” 

“Did you find the trophies?” Will asked. 

“The surgical trophies? No. We don't know what he did with them.”

Will sighed and swallowed hard. “Have Zeller examine the meat in his kitchen.”

“The trophies are in there?”

“Some of them, maybe. Most are gone.”

“Gone?” Jack asked. 

Will was silent for a while. “He ate them,” he finally whispered.

Jack leaned back in his chair and shook his head. A sick feeling rose in Alana's stomach. _He ate them._ No, it couldn't be true...

Jack was looking at her, still shaking his head. “It's the drugs talking,” he said. “Let's end the interview here. Will needs rest.” 

“ _No_ ,” Will said, and he sounded angry. “Check my computer files. I know you have them. I know you took them. You'll need Alana's calendars from the past few years to match up the dates.”

“The dates of what?” Alana asked.

“The sounders. They correspond to his dinner parties.” 

Jack was still shaking his head. He looked disturbed. “Will, you're still very sick. You're on a lot of pain medication. You can't possibly believe --” 

Will closed his eyes. “If you don't think what I'm telling you has any value, why are you here?” 

Jack looked at Alana for guidance. _Is Will crazy or not?_ he seemed to want to ask. 

_No, he's not_ , she thought. “Do what he says,” she said, feeling sick to her stomach. 

“He's got a secret room,” Will said. “It's below ground, where it's cooler. It won't appear on blueprints. You need to tear that house apart until you find it.” 

Jack was still silent. He was shaking his head. “Goddammit, Jack!” Will finally yelled, slamming his fist down weakly, and there were tears falling from his eyes. “Listen to me! You need to find that room if you're going to make those charges stick! That's where the evidence is! There's no evidence at the crime scenes – he took it all with him!” 

Will was crying now. Alana reached over and hugged him. “He's going to walk,” Will was saying. “He's got a good lawyer who can explain it all away. He's going to walk. You need more evidence.” 

He was breaking down. Alana looked at Jack. “You need to go,” she said. “Look for that room. You know Will's not wrong.” 

Jack nodded and left. Will was sobbing against her in a way she hadn't seen in a long time. “Shh,” she whispered. “You're going to hurt yourself.” 

“He didn't believe me,” Will was saying. “He was looking at me like I'm a crazy person.” He brought his fist down again. _“I'm not crazy!”_

“I know you're not crazy,” she said, running her hands through his hair, desperately trying to calm him. “I believe you.”

“Look at what he's done to me, Alana!” Will sobbed. “He almost cut me in half!” His sobs had turned into gasps for air – a panic attack was starting. 

Michelle came rushing in. “Bring a sedative,” Alana said. “Please.” As the nurse rushed out, Alana sat on the bed next to him and held him, cradling his cheek in one of her hands. “Will,” she said sharply. “You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe. Hold my hand.” She gripped his hand with both of hers. “Focus on my eyes and my voice.” Will was trying – he was looking at her, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Deep breaths,” she said, and led him in the breathing exercise, though she could tell he was in pain. 

A few minutes later, Michelle came in with a syringe and bottle. “Valium,” she said to Alana, holding it up. 

Alana's heart was breaking. She didn't want to force the drug into him, but he had severe internal injuries. If he fell out of the bed, or even moved the wrong way...

She motioned to Michelle to stay back. Alana wanted to calm Will enough where he would take the sedative willingly. They continued to breathe together until Will had calmed enough to lay his head back. He still shook with occasional sobs. 

Alana squeezed his hand. “Do you want a sedative?” she asked. 

“It's just a little Valium, Will,” Michelle said. “That's all.” 

Will shook his head. “I'm okay,” he said. Alana looked at Michelle, who nodded and left. 

Will was silent for a long time, his chest still heaving. Alana stayed sitting next to him, stroking his hair. His face was damp. Once he had calmed, Alana leaned forward and kissed him tenderly, once on each cheek. She stared at his face, and the look in his eyes was so sad that she started to cry herself. 

Will looked at her, watched the tears roll down her cheeks. He reached up slowly and touched her face – Alana thought he was trying to wipe the tears away – but his aim was off, due to his weakness and the drugs. His hands stroked her cheeks. 

“How long did you know he was a cannibal?” she finally asked, once she had calmed herself. 

“I suspected the Ripper was a cannibal for a long time, even before...all this,” he said quietly. “Organs are poor trophies. I wasn't convinced he was selling them. Serial killers don't sell their trophies; they're special. 

“Lecter himself told me something that helped me make up my mind even more: he said the Ripper took the organs because he felt his victims didn't deserve them. It was a way to humiliate them further. If that was true, why would he keep them around?” He paused. “He was eating them." 

He took a shuddering breath. “Then I figured out that Lecter was the Ripper. The sounders made sense then. He needed to kill so many in such a short time because he wasn't eating them by himself. He was feeding them to others, too.” 

“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked. 

Will shook his head and his eyes filled with tears again. “I didn't want to hurt you. I couldn't hurt you. He was your friend. You must have eaten countless meals with him.” 

“And they all contained human remains?”

“Not all. But most. That's why he never wanted to eat anything he didn't cook himself – he enjoys eating human remains too much.” Will paused for a moment. “He's killed many. He was prolific. We'll never know how many.” 

A surge of disgust rose in Alana's chest. “He's a monster.” 

“Not a monster,” Will said, shaking his head. “The highest predator on the food chain. He considers what he does very civilized.”

“It's civilized to feed human remains to his friends?”

“For him, it is. His morality is completely skewed. He's not like you or I.” 

Silence fell between them again. Alana could see Will was exhausted. “You're tired,” she said. “I should go.”

“No. Not yet, please. I wanted to tell you something.” 

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “We should have run away together. That night, when you asked me. I said we couldn't, but that was a lie.” 

“It wasn't a lie.” 

“It wasn't the entire truth, then. We could have run away, but I wanted to stay. I wanted revenge. I let myself get swept up in it.” His face twisted – he was going to cry again. Alana couldn't stand to see it, especially as weak as he was. 

“Shh, Will,” she whispered. “Please don't blame yourself, either. Remember you told me not to blame myself?” 

“I don't know what my life's going to be like when I get out of here.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I've had a colostomy. I can't eat. I can't walk. I'm going to need care that neither of us can afford. I'm a mess, inside and out.” 

“I don't care.” She was crying again, too – she kissed his hand. “You saved my life. You lay your life on the line to protect mine.” She sighed. “And you made sure that no prosecutor can charge me for murder.” 

“I should have let you kill him. If he walks away from this...”

“He won't walk away,” she said. “He's going to prison, Will. He's done.” She cradled his hand in hers. “Even after everything that happened, I never thought he would do this to you. I don't know why. I thought he was...better, somehow, than this. What he did to you is savage.” 

Will was quiet again. Then he spoke. “After he slashed me, he tried to comfort me. I still remember his voice. He told me to stay calm, that it would be over soon...that I would die soon.” He went silent for a while, and Alana saw his eyes fill with tears again – angry tears, the tears of someone who had been violated. “He told me I was brave.” The tears fell from his eyes onto his cheeks. “I hate him.” 

He spoke the last through gritted teeth. Alana had never heard him sound so bitter. 

 

When Alana next saw Jack Crawford nearly a week later, she was out in the hallway with Will, who was walking slowly and tentatively with a walker. Kelly walked next to him, while Alana dragged his IV tree. Will was out of breath and shaking from the effort and Alana was suggesting they return to his room when she saw Jack approaching them. Beverly and Zeller were behind him. 

“We have to talk,” Jack said, without preamble. 

“Good evening, Jack. How are you?” Alana said sarcastically. 

Jack sighed. “I'm sorry, Alana, Will,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. It's urgent.” 

“Will needs to return to his room first,” Alana said. “If you wait outside in the waiting room, I'll come get you when he's ready.”

Jack nodded. He and Zeller turned and walked toward the exit. Beverly rubbed Alana's arm and gave her a tight smile before following Jack and Zeller into the waiting room. 

Kelly helped Will turn around and, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, led him patiently back to his room. Once they were there, she and Alana helped Will back into bed, easing him back into a reclining position. Kelly monitored his vitals and slipped a nasal cannula over his head to give him extra oxygen. 

Alana leaned over and kissed his forehead. “You did great.” 

“I'm tired of this bed,” he muttered. 

“Don't push yourself too much,” Kelly said. “You're doing really well.” She lowered her voice. “There's even talk that you'll be out of the ICU soon. But you didn't hear that from me.” 

Alana smiled. “We can spend more time together. None of these hourlong visits. I can stay with you.” 

But Will looked sad. He had been down since Jack's visit. “I don't want you to stay with me,” he said. “You need to focus on work.” 

He was, in a way, right about that – Alana was going through tenure review, which was stressful enough without her boyfriend in critical condition because he was nearly disemboweled by a serial killer – but she found it difficult to concentrate on her job and her research with Will still so sick. Though he was doing better every day, the stone of worry that was ever-present on her chest still hadn't disappeared. 

“Jack's waiting,” he said. 

“Let him wait,” Alana said. “I'm not letting him in until you're ready.” 

Kelly, who was hooking him back up to the machines, spoke up. “Do you need anything?” she asked. Will shook his head. “How's your pain?” she asked. 

Alana knew Will had to be in pain – his face was pale and he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat – but he shook his head. “I'm okay,” he said.

Kelly looked skeptical and met Alana's eyes, but she said nothing. Once she was sure Will was comfortable and properly monitored, she left. 

“What Jack is going to tell us won't be pleasant,” Will said quietly.

“He never tells us anything pleasant,” Alana replied. She sighed. She knew time was running short; the visiting hour ended at nine. “I'll be right back,” she said, rising.

“I'll be here,” Will murmured. Alana turned her head towards him, not sure if he was making a joke. She hoped he was, but suspected he wasn't. 

Alana walked out of the ICU and into the waiting room, where Jack was still waiting with Beverly and Zeller. “He's ready,” she said. 

It took them all a few minutes to settle in when they were in Will's room. Beverly had visited several times and was warm to him because she was Will's friend, but Jack still looked uncomfortable, and Zeller even more so. For a while, he looked everywhere else but at Will. Finally, when they were all seated, Jack began. “We took your advice and searched Dr. Lecter's house again.” 

Will nodded. 

“We checked the fridge first. It was almost empty. We believe, though we're not sure, that Lecter was planning on fleeing. He had a bag packed in the car he was driving with cash and clothes, but no passport, ID, credit cards...no identifying information.” 

Will nodded again, but was still silent. 

“Nothing in the fridge contained human remains,” Zeller said. 

“But we checked the rest of the house,” Beverly said quickly. “We focused in on the basement. Everything corresponded to the floor plan. No secret rooms...until we went a floor up, into the garage.” She paused. “I found it almost by accident. I was shining my flashlight behind a shelf when I noticed a door with a keypad, more than an arm's length inside.”

“Security code and thumbprint access,” Jack said. “We needed our theft specialists to break in.” 

“Whomever checked the garage missed it the first time around,” Beverly said. “The shelf was on a track. It slid over a few feet to allow access to the door.” 

“Modern-day version of a secret passage,” Zeller said. 

“We had to pull out the shelving and get the theft team in to crack the door,” Beverly said. “That took most of a day. But we got in and found stairs that led to an underground room. Not on the floor plans, like you said.” 

“It cost a fortune for him to build it, and then he killed anyone who knew about it,” Will said. “Like a king of old.” 

“Or a comic book villain,” Beverly said. She caught Zeller looking at her. “What?” she asked. 

“Anyway,” Jack said testily. 

“Once we got down there,” Beverly continued, looking back at Alana and Will, “we found what looked like a mortuary or surgery. Fastidiously clean. No odors of decomp, but a lot of surgical equipment and a morgue table.” 

Alana felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. There was absolutely no reason why Hannibal should have surgical equipment and a morgue table in his home unless he was chopping up bodies. Plain and simple. 

Beverly continued. “We found a set of drawers filled with samples: hair, organ tissue, muscle and bone tissue. There's at least thirty different sets of DNA in there. The lab's still cross-matching, but not all are known Ripper victims.”

“He did label them,” Zeller said. “And the labels have been accurate, so far. We've still got a lot to check.” 

“We found samples from the copycat victims, too,” Jack said quietly. 

Beverly continued. “There was also a walk-in refrigerator with body parts, bones, and organs. Miriam Lass's other arm. Bedelia du Marurier's arms and legs. Abigail Hobbs's wrist and hand, with Will's blood and DNA under the fingernails. Others...we're still cross-matching on those, too. We estimate at least fifteen different bodies.”

“He was using everything he could,” Will whispered. “But it wasn't really honoring them. He wasn't trying to atone for his murders like Hobbs was.” 

Alana shuddered. “My God,” she said. 

“We lost one of the Baltimore PD officers who accompanied us then and there,” Beverly said. “He ran out of the fridge and threw up onto the floor. Said he'd never seen anything like that in his life outside of a horror movie.” 

“Weak,” Zeller muttered. “It didn't even smell in there.” 

Beverly rolled her eyes. “So, seeing that, we decided to search again, to see what else was missed the first time around. We went back into the house and found his wine cellar. Most of it was identifiable, never opened, but there were a few beer barrels. The DNA in one of the barrels matched Miriam Lass.” Beverly glanced at her notes. “It was a cabernet sauvignon barrel filled with beer.” 

It was too much for Alana; she ran to the bathroom and vomited. 

A few minutes and a gentle knock later, Beverly came into the bathroom and found her crying by the toilet. “He fed me Miriam,” Alana said, remembering the bright woman she'd known so briefly and respected so much. “That motherfucker fed me Miriam.” She looked up at Beverly, whose face was calm but pale. “What kind of sick fucking bastard is he?” 

Beverly shook her head.

“Will told me he was capable of unspeakable evil.” She laughed humorlessly. “I guess this would qualify.” She wiped away her tears. “Please, Beverly. Tell me you've finally got enough to put him away.”

“With what's in that room, pretty fucking likely,” Beverly said. “But he's got a damn good lawyer. You and Will will have to testify.” 

“We'll do whatever we have to,” Alana said. “He needs to be put away forever.” She rose, shakily, and walked toward the sink, where she spashed some water on her face and dried it with a paper towel. There was no mirror in the bathroom. “You look okay,” Beverly said. 

She and Beverly came out of the bathroom, and Alana took her seat again next to Will. He reached for her hand. She grasped it and squeezed back. “Have some water,” he whispered to her, nodding toward his water pitcher. She took an empty styrofoam cup and poured herself some water, choking it down to relieve the ache in her throat. 

Once she had finished the cup of water, she sighed. “Hannibal told me the beer in that barrel was my private reserve. He always had bottles of it ready for me whenever I visited.” She looked at Jack, who had the expression of a man who had just been punched in the stomach. 

“I'm sorry about Miriam, Jack,” Will said quietly. “She didn't deserve what happened to her.” 

Jack sighed. “Let's just say it's a good thing for Dr. Lecter that he's in custody right now.” 

Silence spread through the room. The true extent of Hannibal's depravity had been uncovered, and Alana was disturbed, but most of all, she was overwhelmed. She didn't want to think about it. She wanted to go home, dive into bed, and not think for as long as she possibly could. 

“Did you find anything else?” Will asked.

“Nothing in the house,” Beverly said. “We collected that set of dishes he always carries, as well as a cooler from the trunk of his car. We're still running tests to see what we can pick up.” 

Just then, Kelly came in to let them know visiting hours were ending. After quick goodbyes and promises to return, Jack, Zeller, and Beverly departed, leaving Will and Alana alone in the room together. 

They sat, silent. Alana still felt sick. Kelly knocked and came into the room. “What did you need, Will?” she asked. Alana realized Will must have hit the call button. She hadn't seen him do it. 

“Can Alana stay for a little while longer?” Will asked her. 

Kelly and Alana looked at each other. Will rarely asked for anything, not even pain medication – the nurses had commented several times on how quiet he was. 

Kelly seemed to consider it. “Okay,” she said. “But I can only give you half an hour, tops. My supervisor will get on my ass otherwise.” 

Will nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome,” Kelly said, a hint of surprise in her voice. She left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. 

Alana reached for his hand, and he held it. “I'm sorry I was rude to you,” he said. “Earlier, before Jack came.” 

“You weren't rude.” 

He smiled in a self-deprecating way. “I kind of was.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, anyway.” 

She threaded her fingers through his. “Okay,” she said. “I accept your apology, though it's entirely unnecessary.” 

They fell into silence again. Alana continued to thread her fingers through his. The action soothed her. Finally, Will spoke. “Are you okay?” he asked. 

Her eyes filled with tears. “Not really,” she whispered. 

“Me neither,” he said. Alana let her tears fall. She was reminded, as she occasionally was, that Will knew her better than anyone else. For her, he was the partner so many people craved for themselves – someone who knew how she felt and, very often, what she was thinking. 

“I feel numb,” she finally said. “Just numb. I know it will all hit me soon, but for right now, I don't want to think about it.”

Will nodded. “Will you talk to someone? You know, if it gets to be too much?” He paused, quirking his lips as if he was struggling with what to say. “You can talk to me, but I'm not sure how much I'll be able to help you.”

She smiled at him, and a surge of love rose in her chest and warmed her heart. “You help me more than you know.” 

“Come lie next to me,” he said. 

Alana shook her head. “No, I'll hurt you.” 

“I'm already in pain. I doubt you can hurt me more.” He smiled a little. “Maybe we'll make each other feel better.”

She climbed carefully onto his bed, minding the IV lines and monitor wires, and lay next to him, folding her body so that she didn't put any pressure on his abdomen. Will smelled bad – a mixture of bandages, antiseptic, and body odor from not having a shower or bath for a month – but he was warm and alive and talking and _himself._ She settled her head on his shoulder and, very gently, lay her arm on his chest. “I'm not hurting you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. She felt his hand stroking her shoulder. “I wish you could stay.”

“Me too.” Being this close to him reminded her of just how much she missed him at home, in bed next to her, clean and comfortable and not being fed through tubes. 

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you,” she said back. “I don't know what I would have done if I lost you.” 

Will's hand was stroking her hair. “My memory's coming back,” he said. “When I first woke up, I couldn't remember much. Everything was hazy. I didn't even know why I was here half the time.” 

Alana nodded her head against him. 

“I dreamed a lot when I was sedated,” he said. “Nice dreams, mostly. Remarkably vivid. But sometimes I would fight the drugs and come close to waking up, and I would hear your voice reading to me.” He paused. “What were you reading to me?”

“ _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , mostly,” she said.

“Did we get far?” 

“Edmund Dantes escaped and found his treasure.” 

He was silent again for a while. “Thank you for not leaving me,” he whispered. 

Alana smiled, that warm feeling of love he inspired in her filling her chest. “I would never leave you,” she said. 

“You never _have_ left me,” he said. “I'll make it up to you, Alana, I swear.” 

She shook her head. “You already have,” she murmured close to his ear. “You survived.”


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

A few days later, Will was finally moved out from the intensive care unit, where he'd been for over a month, and into a regular room. He was nowhere near well enough to be released, but he didn't need constant monitoring any longer. 

The transition was more difficult for him than Alana had anticipated. In spite of the fact that it was still unclear whether or not the federal government would be covering Will's hospital costs, Johns Hopkins had decided not to transfer him. They had even given him his own room due to his condition – he was still at risk for infection and couldn't walk across the room without assistance. More people came in and out of his room and often left the door open to the noisy hallway. This irritated him, especially since he was too weak to get up and close the door himself. Alana had spoken with the nurses and even left signs on the door in multiple languages reminding the hospital staff to keep it closed, but often found it open when she arrived for her visits. 

Will was also having trouble sleeping again. He told Alana that nurses, medical assistants, and phlebotomists came into his room at all hours of the night to do bloodwork and check his vitals, and since he wasn't being heavily sedated any more, they woke him up. All of that, plus the fact that he was still in intense pain even with his pain medications, made him upset most days. Alana knew this entire experience, and especially his lack of privacy and his inability to leave his room, was triggering his memories of Baltimore State Hospital. 

To help him cope, Alana brought him new pajamas, slippers, a robe, and a tablet computer under the guise of a belated Christmas gift. At first, he was embarrassed at how much she had spent, but when she refused to take the tablet back and showed him where she had loaded in books and music and Netflix for him and set up his email, he accepted it. It also helped her cause that they could say goodnight and good morning to each other over Skype, and when she was home, she held up her phone camera to show him the dogs. 

But Alana knew the gifts were like a band-aid on a gushing wound: in spite of how weak he still was, Will was desperate to return home. Although she had done her best to make him feel comfortable, she knew he was tired of feeling helpless, tired of the hospital, tired of his pain. And even though she wanted him home as much as he wanted to be there, she had to exercise every ounce of her patience and compassion to convince him that staying in the hospital was the best thing for him and to not be angry when he was stubborn. 

They day she brought him his gifts, they also had a rare argument over his taking a shower – Alana had wanted to help him herself, but he didn't want her to see his injuries or feel obligated to take care of him. Alana pointed out that she had already seen his injuries, that he needed help, that if she didn't help him, a stranger would, and that she knew Will wouldn't want that, either. Though she had been calm and even-tempered in her answers, Will had lashed out, screaming and cursing at Hannibal, who wasn't there to take it, and then at himself, tearing at his hair until he finally dissolved into sobs. Will's nurse had come in offering a sedative, but Alana told her it wasn't necessary. She sat next to him on the bed and held him, her heart aching and tears running down her face as well. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, when he had calmed down.

“Don't be sorry,” she whispered back. “You needed to do that.” She paused. “You'll need to do that a lot more, I think.” 

“It's unacceptable,” he said. 

“It's anger, Will. It's okay.” She ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “That night, after he attacked you, I lost it. I went to see you and you were barely alive. All the doctors had this grim look on their faces. I was so angry. I went to Hannibal's room and I just lay into him, but it didn't make me feel any better. Then I walked out into the waiting room and started screaming. Beverly was there and she comforted me.” She held him closer. “You're not crazy.” 

“Everyone's always in a rush to sedate me,” he said, a note of bitterness in his voice. 

“Because you can hurt yourself,” she said. “You're still recovering from terrible injuries. I know you hate to think of yourself as fragile, but you are right now. You almost died. You need to give yourself time to recover.” 

Finally, he accepted her help. A patient care assistant brought her a bathing chair, but stayed outside of the bathroom while she stripped down to her underwear and helped Will clean himself up. Both she and Will were exhausted by the end, but it was worth it to see him comfortable in new, clean pajamas and to bury her face in his neck and smell the warm smell that was unmistakably his. 

She walked in one evening after work to find Will absorbed in reading something on the tablet; he returned her kiss but didn't put the computer aside, as he normally did. “What are you reading?” she asked as she sat down next to him.

“Freddie Lounds,” he said. “She's pretty accurate, actually. She knows a lot. She's got FBI contacts for sure.”

“Zeller?”

Will shook his head. “Not him. But BAU.” 

He handed the tablet to her. There was an article, with pictures, titled “Basement of Horrors: Inside Hannibal the Cannibal's Secret Lair.” Alana looked at Will. “Hannibal the Cannibal?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Some genius at the FBI gave her the name. Apparently that's what he's being called in the hallowed halls of the BAU.” He sighed. “It's stuck. It's on the news, too.” 

“I haven't been watching,” Alana said. She'd caught the occasional glimpse of Hannibal's face on the news as she passed televisions in waiting rooms, coffee shops, and the cafeteria and staff lounge at Georgetown, but every time, she was struck by a wave of nausea and had to avert her eyes. Her family and friends had learned the subject was sensitive for her and had stopped asking her about it. 

“I've been staying away, too,” he said quietly. “But every time I turn on the news, he's on. Top story. They're not talking about much else.” He paused while Alana scanned through the article and then looked at the pictures. “Freddie emailed me,” he finally said. “The pictures the police took of me in the apartment and later on in the ICU leaked. Someone sent them to her but she didn't publish them.” 

Alana looked at him, surprised. “That was...kind of her.” 

Will nodded. “She could have made a lot of money off those pictures, and not just from ad sales. I'm sure the news networks would have bought them.” He sighed. “They'll be public record and everywhere soon enough, once the trial starts.”

“You think there will be a trial?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “The Chesapeake Ripper's love of performing hasn't ended. Not even close.” 

 

After more than two months in the hospital, Will was finally cleared to go home. He was able to tolerate soft and bland solid food and his colostomy had been reversed, but he was still heavily medicated and still wore a post-surgical binder on his abdomen. His doctors had said it might be more than a year before he healed completely. They had recommended rehabilitative care, but Will couldn't afford it without insurance. 

He moved slowly and gingerly: he had slipped and fallen in the hospital and the pain he'd felt had terrified him. He had lost twenty pounds and, in spite of Alana's best efforts to help him build his strength, he was still frail. 

Their departure from the hospital was uneventful. It was a few days into March, and a light snow was falling, leaving slushy mounds at the sides of the road. Alana drove her car up to where the volunteer was waiting with Will in a wheelchair. Alana helped Will into the car and then placed a blanket over him once he was settled. 

By the time they reached the highway out of Baltimore, Will was fast asleep. Like the evening she had first brought him to her home, she had to stop at the pharmacy and fill his prescriptions, and she left him sleeping in the car. She half-expected there to be press swarming her car when she left the pharmacy, but no one was there. Will was still sleeping soundly in the passenger seat. 

They arrived home and, after he greeted the dogs, Alana helped him undress and let him lay down on a makeshift bed she had made on the sofa. Climbing the stairs to the master bedroom would be too difficult for him, so he would be staying downstairs until he was stronger. They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening there, together, Alana sleeping next to him, happy to finally have him home with her after almost three long months. 

The road just off her property was swarmed with news vans the next morning. Alana was making coffee and contemplating just how she would get out of her driveway to go to work when Will walked into the kitchen. The dogs were following him obsessively – they knew he was injured and were very protective. “Will, baby, go lay back down,” she said. 

“I want to go outside,” he said quietly. 

Alana tried to talk him out of it, but he was insistent. Finally, after she had dressed, she helped him bundle up against the cold and they walked outside together, Alana supporting him so that he wouldn't slip in the driveway. Her focus was on Will and the ground, but she could see cameras flashing, hear shouting. 

They stopped together a few feet before the group of reporters and onlookers that had gathered once they saw movement on the porch. Alana could feel Will trembling, but he wasn't turning away. He took a deep breath. “I'll answer your questions for a few minutes, and then I would like you to leave,” he said. 

There was a second of still silence, and then their voices exploded. 

“Mr. Graham, who injured you?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will said. 

“Is he the person you claimed framed you for the five murders you were charged with?”

“Yes.” 

“Why didn't you speak out before?”

“Because I didn't have enough evidence, and because I knew Dr. Lecter was very dangerous.” 

“Mr. Graham, how did the FBI finally direct their suspicion towards Dr. Lecter?”

Will paused. “It's a long story and I'm not sure if I can talk about it, since it's an open investigation.” 

“Is it true the FBI employed Dr. Lecter as a consultant after your arrest?” 

Will paused. “I'm not sure what his official role was, to be honest. I don't know if he was ever an FBI employee. But he did consult on cases.” 

“Did he consult on the Chesapeake Ripper case?”

Will looked at Alana. The FBI was likely being cagey on this information, which was why they were asking him. “You can say or not say whatever you want,” she whispered. “You're not their employee any more.” 

Will was still quiet, thinking carefully. The reporters were eerily quiet, waiting to hear Will's answer. He sighed. “Yes, he did,” he finally said. “He attempted to lead the investigators off his trail, but he didn't succeed.” 

“Can you say anything more about that?”

Will shook his head. 

“Mr. Graham, will you testify at Dr. Lecter's grand jury hearing next month?”

“Yes,” Will said. 

“Are you and Dr. Bloom in a relationship?” 

They looked at each other. Will raised his eyebrows. “You answer,” he said.

“Coward,” she said back, with a teasing smile on her face. An echo of laughter ran through the reporters. She turned back to them. “Yes, we are,” Alana said. 

“Dr. Bloom, are the rumors true that Dr. Lecter was a cannibal?” 

Alana paused. A feeling of sickness came over her whenever she thought about that. She wasn't sure how to respond. “I can't say anything for sure since the FBI is still investigating,” she said, “but I think the evidence that is emerging speaks for itself.” 

“Dr. Bloom, you worked with Dr. Lecter at Johns Hopkins. Were there any signs then that he had a secret life?” 

Alana was surprised that the reporters seemed just as interested in her as they were in Will. “There were strange rumors, but I never paid any attention to them,” she said, wanting to be honest. “He was my mentor, my colleague, and my friend. I'm as shocked and dismayed and upset as anyone else who knew him.” 

“Dr. Bloom, you say you 'knew' Dr. Lecter. Do you no longer feel like you know him?” 

“No,” Alana said. “I realized I didn't know him at all.” She felt Will squeeze her waist gently. 

“Dr. Bloom, you testified that Mr. Graham had committed five murders in a delusional state. Do you still believe that?”

Alana shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she said. “Will was never delusional. He never committed a murder. He was framed. Will Graham is sane and, above all, not dangerous.” 

A woman's voice sounded from somewhere in the crowd. “Will Graham didn't kill my daughter,” she said. “I want everyone to know that.” All eyes turned to her. 

Will took a step forward, searching the crowd for her. They cleared around a sad, dark-haired woman. “My daughter was Georgia Madchen,” she said. “Will Graham didn't kill her. He's innocent.” 

Will walked over to her. She began to cry when she saw him; she took a few steps toward him. “I told them there had to be some mistake, but they told me there wasn't, that you did it.” She shook her head. “You didn't do it. You helped Georgia. You got her to a hospital. Why would you kill her?” 

“I'm so sorry about Georgia, Mrs. Madchen,” Will said. “I would never have hurt her. She was sick and needed help.” He shook his head, trying to control his emotions. “You deserved to have time together. Georgia deserved to be healthy. Dr. Lecter stole that from you. I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Madchen grasped his hand. To Alana's surprise, he didn't let go. He put his hand on top of hers, kindly. “They want to sue you,” she whispered. “The Boyles and the Schurrs. They called me a few months ago to see if I wanted to join them. I said no.” 

Will nodded solemnly. “Thank you,” he said. “We want justice for your daughter,” he said quietly. “Dr. Lecter did a horrible thing to her and he deserves to pay for it.” 

“Will he be charged? He hasn't been charged yet.”

Will sighed. “I don't know,” he said. “I hope he will be. Alana and I will use whatever influence we have to try to get him charged, but that's ultimately up to the grand jury.” 

How long had this devastated woman been standing out here? How far had she travelled to be here, just on the slim hope that she could speak to Will? Alana's heart ached in sympathy for her. No matter what difficulties Mrs. Madchen had had with her daughter, Georgia had still been her daughter. She had still loved her daughter. “Will, baby, stay here,” she said quietly. “Don't follow me.” He nodded. 

She jogged to her car, which was parked less than fifty feet away. As she went, she could hear the reporters again, asking Will questions. She couldn't hear what they were, but she heard Will's voice answering them. Alana found a stack of business cards she kept in her glove compartment and took one out, then ran back over. 

Will seemed okay, so she went back over to Mrs. Madchen. “Here's my card,” she said, handing her business card to her. “My office number is on there. Please call me if you need anything.”

Mrs. Madchen looked up at her with her sad eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly. 

“Thank _you_ for coming,” Alana said. “Please call me. I'll keep you updated on what's going on.” She grasped Mrs. Madchen's hand, and she grasped it back. 

Alana then returned to Will, who was still answering questions, although she could tell his energy was running out. “Let's finish up,” she whispered in his ear.

“I don't know how without being rude,” he whispered back.

“Let me handle it,” she whispered. She turned to the reporters. “Thank you for all your questions. Will's still recovering from terrible injuries. We ask that you please respect our privacy and give Will time to recover. Like he said earlier, Will Graham will be testifying at Dr. Lecter's grand jury hearing and more of your questions will be answered then.” 

A few more questions were shouted, but Alana shook her head. “I'm sorry, but Will needs to rest. We really can't say any more.” Then Alana turned Will purposefully and led him away, back up the driveway, careful that he didn't slip. 

“Thanks for being the bad guy,” he said quietly.

“Eh, I'm good at it,” she said, smiling at him. They went back inside and Alana helped him change out of his warm clothes and back into his pajamas. Afterward, she heated up some water in the microwave and made him a cup of tea. “You're quiet,” he said, as she handed him the cup. 

Alana smiled at him. “I'm just thinking,” she said. 

“About what?” 

“How much you've changed,” she said.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Will Graham I knew at the FBI would never have done what you just did.” 

“Is that a bad thing?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. It's a good thing.” She caressed his face fondly. “I'm proud of you, Will.” 

“I just wanted them to leave so that you could go to work,” he said quietly. 

“It doesn't matter why you did it, baby,” she said softly, kissing him on his cheek just under his eye. “What matters is that you did it.” 

 

Alana didn't want to leave Will alone while she was at work, but she didn't have a choice. Over the next few weeks, she temporarily resumed her old habit of calling him every few hours to check on him, and spent as little time as she could at her office in Georgetown, often taking work home with her in the late afternoons and evenings. Will's pain medications made him drowsy, so he spent a lot of time sleeping. Alana often worked late into the night in an armchair beside him before carefully climbing into the sofa so that she could sleep with him. 

Even after Will had gained enough strength to join Alana back in their bed, he was hesitant to become intimate with her again, partly because sex was painful for him, and partly because she suspected he was self-conscious about his scar. He was very depressed and she often – too often – found him crying, in secret so she couldn't see. Alana recognized the signs of post-traumatic stress but was cautious not to be too obvious in her efforts to treat him. 

It didn't help that Hannibal was all over the news, constantly – a handsome, glamorous society doctor accused of capital murder and attempted murder charges in the double digits as well as hundreds of other criminal charges warranted international coverage. The discovery of what was deemed his “Basement of Horrors” had whipped the media into a frenzy. Will's relationship with Hannibal was played up, and summaries of the case often included Will's mugshots and footage from his hearing. There were standing orders at Alana's office that she would not accept phone calls or correspondence from the press, and she only answered personal calls from her friends and family. The police had also stepped up their patrols around her home to chase away press and curious onlookers. 

There was a twist in the case soon after Will was released from the hospital. When Jack had questioned Hannibal about what they had discovered in his home (Jack was careful not to mention it was Will who finally figured it out, but Hannibal likely knew), Hannibal openly admitted that he had cannibalized nearly all his victims, even killed for the sole purpose of cannibalism. He reasoned that humans had a long history of eating one another, and in some cultures it was considered an honor to cannibalize a loved one. Will found it significant that he was no longer denying his crimes. “He's going to go for an insanity plea,” he said after Beverly had called with the news. “He knows even his lawyer can't explain away that room. That's the only reason why he's admitting it.” 

“It won't work,” Alana said.

“Historically, it hasn't,” Will said. “You know how difficult it is to meet the burden of proof for an insanity plea. But who knows with him? He's an excellent actor. He might be able to fool some doctors into backing up his claim in court.” 

The FBI followed Will's direction to check the timelines of the Ripper's sounders, and they did indeed correspond to dinner parties Hannibal had given, parties Alana had often attended. It took all of Alana's inner fortitude and strength not to think about how often Hannibal had fed her human remains and – most horrible of all – how much she had enjoyed every morsel of food or drop of drink he'd ever given her. Guests at Hannibal's dinner parties were talking to the media and expressing their disgust and horror at his crimes, but Alana felt the most victimized of all: not only for what he'd done to Will and probably planning to do with her, but for the fact that she had shared food and drink with Hannibal so often, certainly more than his occasional guests who were all over the news shows and perhaps more than anyone else. 

Alana was having her own bouts of sleeplessness, her own bouts of tears and anger. At night, as Will slept restlessly beside her, moaning and grasping at his stomach, still in pain in spite of his hefty Vicodin dosage, she imagined herself, Ruger in hand, shooting Hannibal in open court. In her more savage imaginings, she stabbed him to death, wanting him to suffer as Will was suffering, as she was suffering. _Maybe I could plead temporary insanity,_ she would think when she woke, disturbed by her own dreams. _Maybe it would work for once._

 

Three weeks after Will was released from the hospital, Hannibal's grand jury indictment was scheduled. He had already been charged with attempted murder for his attack on Will and the FBI agent, and was being charged with eleven murders, but he had still not faced any charges for the murders he had framed Will for. Since the FBI had such little evidence that he had committed them, a grand jury had to decide whether or not he would be charged.

Will was set to testify as the star witness for the prosecution, and nearly all of the evidence he, Freddie, and Alana had collected in the past year would be used. The grand jury hearing would not have the weight of an actual trial – it would likely be more than a year before Hannibal went to trial, if he chose not to accept a plea deal – but it was a kind of test run. 

Will was still emotionally and physically fragile, but he was determined. The victim's advocate had visited both Will and Alana at home and spoken to them. She asked Will to tell her about his time at Baltimore State Hospital and his first hearing, and he did so, speaking quietly but giving her details when she pressed for them. 

Will was silent for a long time after she left. Alana made cups of tea for both of them and sat down beside him on the sofa. “What are you thinking about?” she asked him softly. 

He sighed. “They did this same thing with the families...of the people who were supposed to be _my_ victims.” He took a deep breath. “The Boyles and the Schurrs still think I killed their children,” he said. “They want to sue me.” He laughed humorlessly. “What do I have left to take?” 

Alana grasped his hand. 

“He destroyed my life,” he finally said, “and I have to go in to court and face him. I have to sit there while one of his shits of a lawyer questions my sanity – because they will – and I have to stay in my seat and be a good boy and not get up and strangle Lecter with my bare hands.” 

Alana's eyes filled with tears. She thought of her own dreams, which disturbed her. She remembered Will sobbing on her shoulder as they had looked at the home he had lost, the life that he had so carefully built and that had been stolen from him. _I'm afraid of what he's turned me into,_ Will had said. And she, now, understood that fear. 

“Will,” she whispered. He turned to her and saw she was crying. He caressed her face, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “I've been having terrible dreams,” she said. 

“Dreams that scare you,” he said. 

She nodded. “Dreams where I kill Hannibal,” she whispered. 

“Dreams that aren't nightmares,” he said. She nodded again. He leaned in and kissed her softly, gently, and then lay his head against hers, letting their cheeks touch. “You know you're not a bad person for thinking those things?” he murmured in her ear. 

“I know it, but I don't feel it,” she said. She was crying now, and she wrapped her arms around him. She could feel his fingers in her hair. He said, “You told me once that if I believed he had turned me into someone bad, someone evil, that I was playing right into his hands. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she murmured. 

“We're not bad people, Alana,” he said. “We've chased enough monsters to know that.”

“I know, baby,” she whispered.

“But sometimes we're confused about where we end and those people begin,” he said. “And especially with him.” 

She nodded against him. “I just want to forget him. I want him to be in a cage forever and to never think about him again.” She sighed. “But I know that won't happen, not really.” 

“Because he's part of who you are,” Will said. 

Alana leaned back and looked into his face – thin, tired, and aged, but still the face she loved. “And so are you,” she whispered. 

Will looked into her eyes. “I don't tell you as often as I should,” he said. He paused, struggling for words. “But I love you. I can't imagine not loving you.” He grasped her hand and rubbed soft circles into her skin. 

She smiled and kissed him. He felt his arms wrap around her, his hands caress her, felt him lean deeper into the kiss. She ached to make love – it had been a long drought – but that would likely not be possible today. _It doesn't matter,_ she decided, kissing him more, reveling in his familiar smell and taste. _I can wait._


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Alana and Will were invited to her parents' home for Easter. She was hesitant to go, still remembering the disaster on Thanksgiving, but Will persuaded her. He wanted her to seal the rupture she'd had with her family, a rupture he felt largely responsible for even though Alana insisted it wasn't his fault. 

Now that truth of Will's arrest and his work with the FBI was known, her family's reception was less cold, but not entirely warm. Will was still physically and emotionally fragile, and though he was polite to her family, his quietness and aloofness made him seem unfriendly. As he had on Thanksgiving, he spent most of the day talking with her father rather than watching TV with her brothers, and Alana's nieces and nephews made it a point to stay away from him. 

But after dinner, Alana was helping out in the kitchen when her father came in and gave her a gentle, affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Will and I had a good talk today,” he said quietly. 

“I'm glad,” she said, then lowered her voice. “He's still not himself yet.” 

“Nevertheless, he's a good man,” her father said. “You're able to see in him what others can't.” 

Alana sighed. “That seems to be a theme with us,” she said. 

“Your mother will come around soon enough,” he said. “I think she's stuck in her own opinion of the kind of man she thinks you should be seeing, not who you would actually want to see.” 

Alana nodded. “Dad, I need your help,” she said.

“What do you need, honey?” 

“I need to talk to a litigator.” She lowered her voice more. “I don't want Will to know just yet. He's got enough to worry about.”

“Who are you planning on suing?” 

She sighed. “Will's medical bills are coming in. I've banned him from walking to the mailbox so he hasn't seen them. They're already in the hundreds of thousands of dollars and I won't be a bit surprised if they went into the millions. He had four surgeries and was in the ICU of a teaching hospital for over a month.” Her eyes filled with tears and she choked them down. “Who's supposed to pay for that, Dad? Will is indigent. Anything he had of worth has been seized by the FBI or lost. He won't be strong enough to work for months yet, and even when he can work, he'll be saddled with so much debt that he'll spend the rest of his life paying it off if he doesn't declare bankruptcy.” 

“Have you spoken to the FBI?”

“As far as Human Resources was concerned, Will was no longer an FBI employee. But he was injured while in FBI custody.” 

“They failed to protect him.”

“Yes. I hate to say it, but it's true. Hannibal should have never been able to make it up to that apartment. Three FBI agents failed to stop him. They left Will with no weapons. Hannibal would have killed both of us if I hadn't shot him.” 

Her father nodded. “Will has to be the one to file the suit.”

“I know. But I also need to know if he's got a case at all. He'd be going up against the federal government.”

“They could settle,” he said. 

“Or they could drag him through the mud for even daring to sue.” She sighed again. “There's also rumors of a civil suit by at least two of the families involved in Will's case. If Hannibal doesn't face charges for those murders, those families are going to come after Will for restitution, which he won't be able to pay either.” 

“It's very likely the grand jury will indict Dr. Lecter.”

“Yes, it is. But we have to be prepared in case they don't.” 

Her father paused for a while, then shook his head. “You can't marry him with debt like that, Lana.”

“We're not talking about marriage.”

“I know you. You're thinking, and Will's talking. He wants to marry you, but he feels like he can't.” He grasped her shoulders. “And he can't – not like this. Any debts he has will become your responsibility, too, if you're married.” He pulled her toward him and embraced her. “I'm sorry, honey, but you need to put yourself first.” 

Alana shook her head against his chest. “Will we ever get out from under this? It seems like it doesn't end.”

She felt her father's hand stroking her shoulder. “It's astounding how quickly someone's life can be ruined,” he said. 

“His life's _not_ ruined,” Alana said petulantly.

“Financially, it is.” He sighed. “Lana, he might never recover from this. Once someone is impoverished, it's very hard for them to get back on their feet, especially without a family to support them.” 

_He has a family,_ she thought. _He's got me._ She pulled away from him. Her father, sensing their conversation was over, said, “I'll get you a litigator, if that's what you want.”

“It is what I want.” She started to turn away, but her father stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Don't get me wrong, Lana,” he said. “I like him. He's a good man and I know how much you love him. But you have to be realistic here.”

She nodded. “I know.” She smoothed her hair impatiently. “I should go check on Will. Where is he?” 

“I think your mother said he was out on the back porch.” 

Alana nodded again. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.” She turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen. She knew her father had meant well, but their conversation had upset her. Alana despised feeling helpless, feeling like there was nothing she could do – but that had seemed a near constant in her life for two years now. Even with Hannibal arrested, she and Will still weren't free. 

Will was sitting in the swing on the back porch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked tired – he had held up well, but he was still weak. Alana felt the chill in the evening air as she walked out to meet him. “Baby, it's cold out here,” she said, chiding him. 

He smiled a little. “The blanket's warm. Come inside.” He raised his arm, and Alana sat down next to him and curled her body into his, laying her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and Alana pulled the blanket back over them. “You look upset,” he said. 

“I'm okay.” 

He sighed. “No, you're not, but if you don't want to tell me, that's okay.”

Alana was quiet for a while, content just to be with him. They rocked together on the swing, and the creaking sound it made reassured her. Then, she spoke. “Do you want to get married?”

“What, now?”

She giggled. “No, not now, smart ass. We don't live in Las Vegas. But soon. Not someday in the far future, but someday soon.” 

He was quiet for a long time. “I can't marry you, Alana,” he finally murmured. “And it's not because I don't love you, because I do. You know how much I do. But I have nothing to give you and no way to help and support you.” 

Alana lifted her head and looked up into his face. “What did my dad say to you?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Nothing I didn't already know.” 

“Will, we are _adults,_ ” she said. We can make our own decisions. You don't need to ask my father for my hand in marriage. We don't need my parents' permission to get married.” 

Will shook his head. “I don't have a family, Alana. Please don't take yours for granted.” He sighed and caressed her shoulder. “I don't want to fight. You know as well as I do why we can't get married. There's no need to discuss it and rub salt in the wound.”

“Can we agree to new terms then?” 

He looked puzzled. “Like what?”

“You're clearly more to me than just my boyfriend, Will. We're not dating. We've been in a committed, monogamous relationship for almost a year. We are living together. And if we can't be husband and wife, then we should be something else.” 

“So what should we be?” 

“I think partners is good.” 

He smiled. “Okay.” He lifted her head gently and kissed her. “Well, then, Dr. Alana Bloom, I am your partner.” 

She grinned back, a happy, warm feeling rising in her chest. “And I am yours,” she said. She reached for his hand and grasped it. He squeezed her fingers back, and they kissed each other for a long time as twilight deepened into night around them. 

 

April came in, warm and rainy. Both Alana and Will received a summons from the grand jury in Minnesota that would decide whether or not Hannibal would be charged with the murders of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, and Abigail Hobbs. They were expected to travel there: Alana wasn't sure if Will would be ready to fly in his condition, but a long drive would be difficult for him, too. In the end, she decided the shorter the trip, the better, so she booked two plane tickets from D.C. to Minneapolis. 

Freddie Lounds had also been summoned to testify. The federal prosecutors in charge of the case were using the electronic forensic evidence that Alana had delivered to Jack, so Alana suspected Freddie would be asked about how she obtained it. Alana's own role was somewhat of a mystery, but she was prepared for whatever would come. 

Will was the most important witness, since the prosecutors would be relying largely on his testimony as evidence against Hannibal, and they wanted to meet with him in person before the hearing to prepare him. After Alana and Will had driven from the airport to their hotel and checked in, the prosecutors arrived at their room within an hour. Will was exhausted, but all Alana could do was help him get as comfortable as possible while the prosecutors questioned both of them. 

By the time they left about nine that evening, the prosecutors seemed confident that both Will and Alana would be excellent witnesses. Will, however, barely slept: he had taken a lower dosage of his Vicodin so that he wouldn't be groggy in court, but the combination of pain and his nerves left him restless. After a long, hot shower at two in the morning to ease his pain, he finally dozed off, Alana's arms wrapped around him and his head resting against her breast. 

The next morning, they drove to the courthouse together and Alana let Will lean on her as they walked from the parking garage. Reporters and cameras swarmed them, shouting questions which neither of them answered. By the time they entered the courthouse, Will was clammy and pale. His hands were trembling. Alana had him sit in a quiet, isolated corner while she bought him some tea and cereal bars from the cafeteria. 

Alana was sitting with him, drinking a coffee of her own, when she heard someone say Will's name. Both Alana and Will turned to see Freddie Lounds, dressed in a stunning green and gold brocade jacket and skirt. 

Will actually smiled a little. “Freddie,” he said. “It's good to see you.” He offered her his hand, and Freddie shook it, smiling back. “It's good to see you, too,” she replied. “Both of you.” The smile left her face. “I'm sorry about what happened.” She sounded genuine.

Will nodded. “Thank you...for what you did with the pictures. Or rather, what you didn't do.” 

Freddie lowered her eyes. “I saw your injury. It was horrific. How is your recovery going?”

Will shrugged. “It's going.” He smiled his self-deprecating, sad smile. 

Freddie paused. She looked at both of them. “There's a lot to say, but we can't say it here. Would you and Dr. Bloom be up for a meeting when you're stronger?” 

Will nodded again. “Absolutely,” Alana replied. 

“Then I'll be in touch,” Freddie said. “I'm going to head upstairs.”

Will nodded. “I'll talk to you soon.” 

“Good luck,” Freddie said. She smiled a little and walked away. Alana rose and followed her until they were just out of Will's earshot. Alana called her name and Freddie turned to face her. “I just wanted to thank you, again, for not releasing those pictures,” Alana said, and then she sighed. “Will's been through a lot, and he's got a lot more ahead, in more ways than one. I appreciate your consideration of his feelings.” 

Freddie nodded. “You're welcome.” She paused. “Dr. Bloom, you should know there's been rumors of a civil suit from the Boyle and Schurr families.”

Alana nodded. “We know about it.”

“They have less than a year to file,” Freddie said. “The statute of limitations on a wrongful death civil case in Minnesota is three years. If there's anything, you'll hear by this fall.” 

“I hope it won't come to that,” Alana said.

“I hope it won't, either,” Freddie said. She paused. “I'll keep in touch, Dr. Bloom.”

Alana nodded towards her. Freddie turned and left, heading for the elevators, where a crowd was already forming.

Hannibal's hearing was scheduled to start at half past nine, and as witnesses, Will and Alana were guaranteed seats, so they sat downstairs until most of the crowd had dissipated. Will was very quiet, and seemed content to lean against Alana, letting the side of his head touch hers. Alana gently stroked his back with her fingernails. She asked him if he wanted another cup of tea, but he declined. 

At a quarter after nine, they rose and rode the elevator up to the second floor. Alana kept an arm around Will since he was having trouble walking. She could tell he was already in pain that would only increase as the day went on – she hoped their testimony would be done quickly, so that he could take his Vicodin and they could go back to the hotel to rest. 

Jack was waiting for them when they exited the elevator. He extended a hand toward Will, who shook it silently. “You ready?” Jack asked. 

Will sighed. “Ready as I'll ever be,” he said. 

Jack extended his hand toward Alana, who shook it as well. “Alana,” he said, nodding his head. She knew he was still treading carefully around her. “Jack,” she answered politely. 

Together, they walked down the gallery towards the courtroom where Hannibal's hearing would be held. Jack kept pace with Will, who was walking slowly with Alana's arm supporting him. There were guards at the courtroom door that checked all of their identification cards and Jack's badge before letting them inside. 

A small amount of people were milling about the courtroom – security officers and police, court officials, the legal assistants for the prosecution and defense. Freddie was already seated. Alana guided Will to a seat in the row in front of her, and Jack sat down beside Alana, keeping Will on the aisle so that he could get up more easily. 

One of the prosecutors, a woman around Alana's age named Alicia Davis, came and sat with them, next to Freddie. She told them what order they would be testifying – Will would be first and likely take up an hour or more, followed by Freddie, Alana if she was needed, and then Jack – and then the case would go to the grand jury, who had the right to call other witnesses if needed. “They probably won't need to, though,” she said. “Generally, these cases only last a few hours. All they have to decide is whether or not the evidence stands up and that Dr. Lecter is a possible perpetrator of the crimes.” 

Just as Alicia Davis was finishing, a door opened, and Hannibal was escorted in by his attorneys and several security guards. He was not handcuffed. He wore a simple gray suit with a white shirt and a navy striped tie; Alana supposed his attorneys had advised him to tone things down. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was not nearly as neatly and expertly cut as it had always been – there were no expensive hairstylists in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hannibal's eyes searched the gallery and found Alana's. A surge of anger and disgust rose in her chest, but she refused to look away. Hannibal had to look away first, as he sat down and faced the front of the courtroom. 

Alana, reminded forcefully of Will's hearing, grasped his hand and squeezed it hard. “You okay?” he whispered. 

Her eyes had filled with tears. She took a breath to calm herself down. “I'm okay,” she whispered back. “I was just thinking of you, when you were brought in like that, and how scared I was.” She sighed. “I held myself together for you, but barely. Inside, I was --”

“Screaming,” Will whispered bitterly. Alana looked at him. His face had gone pale and his hand was shaking in hers. 

Another door opened and the grand jury came in: Alana counted sixteen people as they streamed through the door, wearing name tags and settling in seats. The only noise was the rustling of papers and clothes, the noise of movements and coughs. No press were allowed inside. 

Since this was not a trial but a grand jury hearing, there were few of the theatrics that accompanied a normal trial. There was no judge, and the prosecutors introduced the case and gave a short introduction to the grand jury. Hannibal's attorneys did not speak. Within minutes, Will had been called to testify. He rose and walked slowly and carefully through the courtroom and up to the witness stand, where he was sworn in and sat down. Alana noticed he never looked Hannibal's way. 

Alicia Davis was questioning Will. “Please state your name for the jury,” she said. 

“William Graham, last name spelled G-R-A-H-A-M,” Will answered, accustomed to giving testimony in court. 

“Mr. Graham, can you tell the jury about your education?”

“I hold dual Bachelor's degrees in sociology and criminal justice from the University of Louisiana and dual Master's degrees in forensic science and forensic psychology from the George Washington University,” Will said, again on autopilot. 

“And what is your current occupation?”

Will paused. “I am currently unemployed.” 

“What was your former occupation?”

“I was a lecturer at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia and a curriculum designer for the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. I also worked as an independent consultant on homicide cases for state law enforcement in New England and the upper Eastern seaboard.” 

“Were there any specific kinds of homicides you specialized in?” 

“Suspected serial murders,” Will answered. “I was what would be known colloquially as a profiler.” 

“Mr. Graham, could you tell the jury why you are currently unemployed?”

“In March 2012, I was arrested for five counts of murder.”

“Who were you accused of murdering?”

“Four young women by the names of Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, Georgia Madchen, and Abigail Hobbs, and my neurologist, Dr. Donald Sutcliffe.” 

“And what was the evidence against you when you were originally arrested?”

“DNA evidence, including tissue and small body parts such as hair and bone, from all five victims were found in my home and on my body.” 

“Was that the only evidence against you?” Davis asked. 

“At the time, I was the last known person to see both Abigail Hobbs and Donald Sutcliffe alive.” 

“But not the other three?”

“Not the other three, no,” he replied. 

“But this was enough evidence to arrest you,” Davis said.

“Yes,” Will replied. “I had also been exhibiting signs of mental instability which were later identified to be caused by a rare form of autoimmune encephalitis.” 

“Could you please tell us about your relationship with Dr. Hannibal Lecter?”

“He was originally employed as my psychiatrist. At first, he was only supposed to evaluate me for field work in the FBI, but we continued to see each other on a weekly basis afterward.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

“My supervisor in the Behavioral Analysis Unit thought it would be best. I was involved in a shooting – I shot and killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Abigail Hobbs's father. He was a serial killer known as the Minnesota Shrike.” Will paused. “My supervisor and colleague were concerned about my mental state following the shooting.” 

“And you continued to see Dr. Lecter on a weekly basis for therapy sessions following the shooting?”

“Yes. Sometimes, I saw him more than once a week.” Will paused. “I was invited to dinner at his home on several occasions, and he cared for my dogs when I was away working on cases.” 

“Did you consider him your friend?”

Will paused for a long time. He was trying to control his frown and tears had sprung to his eyes. “Yes,” he said. 

Alana was focused on Will, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hannibal lean to the side and speak something in his attorney's ear. His attorney whispered something back, and then Hannibal's other attorney started to whisper, too. Within seconds, there was a fury of whispering, so much so that the prosecutor turned towards their table. “Counselor, is there a problem?” she asked. 

Hannibal's attorney stood. “Yes. We would like to call a recess to consult with our client.” 

Davis looked annoyed. “This hearing is only scheduled to last a few hours. The grand jury has other cases to hear today.” 

“Fifteen minutes, Counselor. That's all we'll need.” 

She sighed. “Very well. Fifteen minutes.” 

Hannibal and his attorneys stood up, buttoning their suit jackets, and walked out of the courtroom through the door from which they had entered. Hannibal's guards walked with them. The jurors stood, stretched, or scribbled notes on their notepads. 

Will was left alone on the witness stand. Alana noticed that he had gone pale. As she watched him, he stood shakily and, without asking, walked across the courtroom and past her – she could see his face had turned white – and straight out of the doors. Alana grabbed her purse and followed. She started calling his name as soon as she was out in the gallery, but he didn't turn around. He went into the men's room, the door closing behind him. 

She debated going in for a few moments, thought about asking Jack to check on him, but finally, thinking of how pale he had been, she went inside. The men's room was empty, fortunately, but she could hear vomiting. She bent down and looked for Will's feet, which she saw in the stall closest to the door. She stood by the door, waiting for him to finish. 

She heard him breathing heavily. “Will?” she asked. “Are you okay?” 

“You shouldn't be in here,” he said weakly.

“Too late,” she replied. “Unlock the door and let me in.” 

She heard the lock slide and the door opened. Will was gray and shaking. Alana hugged him and he buried his face in her shoulder. “I know, baby,” she said, running one hand down his back and stroking the back of his neck with the other. 

“I didn't want to look at him,” he murmured into her shoulder. “But when his fucking lawyer stood up, I couldn't help it.” He was quiet for a few moments. “What am I going to do, Alana?” 

“You're going to keep going, because that's what you do,” she said. “You're going to be the one to put him in prison. No one else can do it.” She kissed his head. “I'm going to go downstairs and get you something to drink. What do you want?” 

He shook his head. “Doesn't matter.” 

She led him outside the stall and watched as he rinsed out his mouth and washed his face. They walked back outside to where Jack was standing, waiting for them. “No word yet,” he said.

“I didn't expect any,” Alana replied. “I'm running downstairs to get something to drink. Would you like anything?”

“I'm fine,” Jack said. 

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” she said. She caressed Will's arm fondly once more and then walked to the elevator. Alana took it down to the first floor and then walked to the cafeteria where she bought herself another coffee and Will a bottle of water and a Diet Coke. 

When she returned, Jack and Will and Freddie were outside of the courtroom. Will was seated on a bench, his head in his hands. He was running his fingers through his hair. _He's upset,_ Alana thought. 

“Alana,” Jack said. “You're not going to believe this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first cliffhanger! Sorry, but this chapter turned into a beast and I decided to split it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not an attorney. (Also, there's next to nothing written about grand jury proceedings. There's a lot of guesswork going on here.)


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

“What's going on?” Alana asked, glancing at Will. As she watched, he leaned back against the wall and put a hand over his mouth.

“The hearing's been halted,” Freddie said. “Dr. Lecter's lawyers are saying he is willing to confess.” 

Alana was speechless – she slowly became aware that her mouth was hanging open. She looked at Jack. A feeling of numbness had settled around her mouth; she had trouble forming the words. “He's going to confess? To the copycat murders?” 

“I assume so,” Jack said. “That's the only reason why the hearing would have been halted. If they get a confession, they can go ahead and arraign him. They don't need the jury to decide.” 

“I don't understand,” Alana said. She felt a buzzing at the base of her skull. 

“Nor do I,” Will said from the bench. 

They all went quiet. Will's face was white and Alana could see his hands were trembling. “I don't understand,” he said, “because he let me rot in a mental hospital for a year and he _never cracked!_ ” Will slammed his fist into the cushion on the bench and stood up. _“Never once!”_ he shouted. “He _won_ – he had everyone believing that I killed five people! He tried to make _me_ believe I killed them! Then, I come all the way here after he almost kills me, testify for five minutes and now he wants to confess to murders he hasn't even been charged for yet?” 

He walked away from them towards the window, where he stood looking out over Minneapolis. He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm missing something...” he muttered. 

Alana, putting her hand up to halt Jack and Freddie, walked over to him. Will turned to her. “Alana, what am I missing?” The desperation in his voice broke her heart. 

“I don't know, Will,” she whispered. “I don't know why he's doing this.” 

Will was close to tears. “He ruined me for nothing. _For nothing._ ” He raised his hands to his face – they were still trembling. 

Very gently, Alana lay a hand on his shoulder. She heard footsteps behind her – Jack had walked over to them. “Will,” he said, “maybe we shouldn't be having this conversation out here.”

Will turned around toward him. “Where are we supposed to have it, Jack?” he snapped. “Of course you're calm – you got your man, didn't you? It's over for you. You still have your job, your home --”

“And I'm losing my wife,” Jack said, quietly. Inwardly, Alana cringed. She prayed Jack and Will both had the tact not to argue with each other. Silence fell between them. 

Finally, Jack sighed. “I'm going to stay here and get Lecter's confession. Alana, Will, I will call you when I have it. If I don't get it --” 

“I'm not coming back,” Will said. “I'm going home. Tonight, if possible. I've had enough of his games. It's obvious who still holds the power here.” He nodded to Freddie. “I'm sorry you wasted your time.” 

Freddie smiled. “I'll get an interesting story out of it,” she said. “Good luck, Will, Dr. Bloom,” she said, the last to Alana. 

Alana put an arm around Will's waist as they started to walk slowly together toward the elevators. She turned back to look at Jack, who still stood where they had left him, his hands in his pockets. 

She sincerely hoped Hannibal would give Jack a true and honest confession, but she also wondered if he was even capable of truth and honesty any more. 

 

They were halfway back to their hotel, according to the rental car's GPS, when Will called out her name. “Alana?”

“Yeah?” she replied.

“Can we pull over?” 

She turned into a movie theater parking lot and shut off the car. The lot was practically empty this early in the morning. Will got out of the car slowly and walked aimlessly away. 

Alana got out of the car and followed him, gauging his body language. She lay a hand on his shoulder softly, then looked into his face. His eyes were dry and he was staring straight ahead. “Come back to the car, baby,” she said. “It's cold out here.”

Will was silent. Alana reached for his hand and held it, but said nothing more. 

“I was an asshole to Jack,” he finally said, not looking at her. 

“Yeah, you were, kind of,” she said. “An accidental asshole, though. You kind of walked into it.” 

The silence between them hung. Finally, he turned his face to hers. “I think I might have brain damage,” he said. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I went into cardiac arrest. My brain lost oxygen. Between that and the encephalitis...” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “The prefrontal cortex is the center of impulse control. I --” His voice tapered off, and he swallowed hard. Alana squeezed his hand, but said nothing. “I don't feel like myself all the time,” he murmured. 

Alana stayed silent next to him, seeing if he would continue on his own. He did. “I can't rest...I'm not sleeping, but I'm tired.” He rubbed his face with his free hand. “I'm so tired. And then sometimes I'm so angry that I want to scream or punch a hole in a wall or destroy something, and I can't destroy anything because it's your house and your things, so I start pulling at my hair --”

“You're not pulling your hair out, are you?” Alana asked, concerned. She hadn't noticed any bruises or cuts or signs of self-abuse. 

Will shook his head. He was crying a little. “No,” he said, choking back tears. “But I'm afraid of myself.”

She rubbed his arm. “I'm not scared of you. And for what it's worth, I don't think you have brain damage. But if you want, when we get home, I can take you to a neurologist.” 

He fell silent again, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. “I think I need to go to a hospital,” he whispered. 

“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

“No,” he said. 

“Hurting anyone else?”

In spite of himself, he laughed. “Besides the obvious? No.” He sighed. “And even then, not seriously. I'm not going to kill him. Living in that hellhole he's in is worse than death.” 

“You're not a candidate for involuntary commitment, then,” she said. She pulled him towards her very gently, by his shoulders, until he was facing her. Then she cradled his face in her hands and she rose on the tips of her toes to kiss him on his jaw and neck. 

She felt his arms wrap around her back and he pulled her close. “What's wrong with me?” he said, his voice desperate against her ear. 

She kissed him again and ran a hand through his hair, then let her hand settle on the back of his neck. “I think your post-traumatic stress disorder is back. When you're off the Vicodin, I'd like to see you go back on your meds. I think you'll feel better.” 

“I can't get a grip on myself. I thought I was better...I don't know any more.” 

Alana leaned back and caressed his face. He was still so thin and tired and old-looking and nothing she was doing was helping. His face always, now, had a pinched look of pain on it. _It can't be permanent,_ Alana thought. _I won't let it be._ He leaned into her touch, seeking the comfort of her warm hands. 

They stood there a while in the deserted parking lot. He pulled her close again and Alana felt him lay his head on the top of hers. She said, “If you need to be hospitalized, I'll be the one who determines that. For right now, I'll keep an eye on you. We'll resume our sessions two or three times a week, as we used to.”

“Can we go home?” he asked softly. 

She cradled his face in her hands. “I think you need to rest tonight. You're exhausted, and I'm exhausted, too. We'll get a flight for the morning. I've got the rest of the week off, so I can stay home with you.” 

He nodded. “Come on,” she said, grasping his hand and starting to lead his back to the car. “Let's get some rest.” 

 

When they returned to the hotel, Alana ordered room service – the bill was going to the federal prosecutor's office anyway – while Will removed his clothes, took his Vicodin, and lay in bed. He insisted he wasn't hungry and was asleep within a few minutes. Alana put part of her sandwich aside for him when he woke. After she was finished eating, she curled up in bed next to him and eventually fell asleep, too. 

They both woke several hours later, in the early afternoon. Alana heard Will stir next to her and then get up. He was trying to walk to the bathroom but was unsteady on his feet. 

“Will, baby, what's wrong?” she called out to him. 

“Dizzy,” he moaned. “Have to throw up.” 

She helped him to the bathroom and sat behind him as he heaved bile into the toilet. As it had been in the courthouse, his vomiting was forceful, almost violent. Alana ran a hand down his back, both soothing him and checking his temperature. When he was done vomiting, he sat back and leaned against the wall, his entire body drooping with exhaustion. “You're not running a fever,” Alana said. “Are you in pain?” He nodded tiredly. 

She walked with him back to the bed and helped him get into the sleeping position the physical therapist at the hospital had recommended to ease his pain – on his back, with a lumbar pillow supporting his lower spine and pelvis. She was concerned: while he still had digestive issues because his injuries were still healing, he hadn't had bouts of vomiting in a while. She sat down on the bed next to him and stroked his hair back from his forehead.

“You okay?” he asked. 

She smiled a little. “I should be asking the same of you. I'm worried that you're not feeling well.” 

“I'll be all right. I feel a little better. My stomach just hurts.” He caressed her knee. “Come lay down again. I'm sorry I woke you.” 

Alana lay down next to him and wrapped an arm around his chest, careful not to put any pressure on his stomach. She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing, which evened out within a few minutes. Then she allowed herself to fall asleep. 

Near five in the afternoon, she heard her phone vibrate on the bedside table. She looked over at Will, but he was still sleeping soundly next to her. She reached over and saw Jack Crawford's name on her caller ID. Alana picked up the phone, whispered “Hold on” into it, and carefully got out of bed. She fumbled through her purse until she found the keycard to the room and then went out into the hallway, not wanting to disturb Will. 

Once she had reached the pool deck and its empty pool, she spoke again. “Sorry, Jack. Thanks for waiting. What happened?”

Jack told her the details – Hannibal had delivered detailed and signed confessions for all five murders. He hadn't wanted to speak to Jack besides basic pleasantries and had spent most of the afternoon handwriting his confessions while Jack watched. The federal prosecutor's office and the FBI would be reviewing the confessions and would make the formal decision about whether they were legitimate or not, but Jack knew they were. “Dr. Lecter will still have the right to go to trial if he wishes and even recant the confessions,” he said. “But the charges for the copycat murders will be added to his list of charges from the Ripper murders and his attacks on FBI staff.” 

“Okay,” Alana said, relieved. “Are you going home tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. He paused. “When are you and Will leaving?”

“I'm going to go online now and book our flight home. Will hasn't been feeling well since we got here. I'm concerned about him.” She paused, carefully considering her words. “Will didn't mean to hurt you today, Jack. He was sorry. It's been a long two years for him and Hannibal's trial is still ahead. He'll probably call you later to apologize.”

“I'm not angry with him, Alana,” he said. “I know he's been through a lot, and I know a lot of that was my fault, too.” He paused again. “Listen, tell him he doesn't need to apologize.”

“He'll want to, I think. He's been different since...everything happened.” 

“Different how?”

Alana paused, deciding how much to tell Jack. She finally decided to tell him the truth. “He's been unstable,” she said. “Not violent – I'm not scared of him at all. But emotionally unstable.” She sighed, running her free hand through her hair. “But he's also been eager to heal rifts and make peace, too. I know he wants to do that with you, but he doesn't know how. So, if he calls you, let him apologize, okay?” 

Jack was silent for a short time. “Okay,” he said.

“And I'm sorry, too, Jack,” she said. “I respect you as my colleague and my friend, and I'm sorry that Hannibal's lies got between us – all of us. And we can't let those lies keep us apart any more.”

“You're right, Alana,” Jack said softly. “Thank you.” She could detect a lot of emotion in his voice that he was holding back. 

She sighed. “Before you go, Jack, I wanted to say that I am so, so sorry about Bella. Both Will and I are. If you need anything, anyone to talk to, we're here for you.”

He paused again. “Thank you,” he said. He took a breath. “I've got to go. My flight's leaving in a few hours and I still have to pack.”

“Okay, Jack. We'll talk to you soon.”

“Goodbye, Alana.” He hung up. Alana began to cry a little; she wiped away her tears with her free hand.

She remembered when Beverly had spoken to her, just before she and Will had left for Minnesota. Bella Crawford was under hospice care and was not expected to survive the month. Jack had sacrificed time away from his dying wife to be here for this hearing. He, too, had reason to be angry. And now that Alana loved Will and had almost lost him – it was a miracle he had survived, really – she understood his grief. She suspected Will did, too; Will's life contained too much grief. 

They had all been friends and colleagues once – they didn't always have a harmonious relationship, to be sure, but they were bound to each other by bonds of respect and friendship. Hannibal had attempted to destroy that, too, as he destroyed everything: sowing distrust between them, poisoning Jack at the time when he was most vulnerable, forever spoiling those last few years Jack would have with his wife. Perhaps that was why Jack had thrown himself into the case. It was his only way to try to fix everything that had gone wrong.

Alana understood that desire too well. 

She sat by the pool for a while, enjoying the silence, before she went back to their room. Will was awake when she walked in. “Was that Jack on the phone?” he asked as she checked him for fever. 

“Yeah,” she said, feeling nothing out of the ordinary. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said, nodding. “What did he say?” 

“He got Hannibal's confession, handwritten and signed. All five of the copycat murders.” Will nodded silently. “Hannibal was straightforward. He gave all the details and even confessed to cannibalizing Cassie Boyle and Abigail Hobbs.” 

“I still can't believe it.”

“He can recant it, of course, but I doubt that argument will hold water in court. But the good news is that, if the Boyles and Schurrs choose to sue you, it'll likely get thrown out. There's another person who's given a detailed confession.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“About the lawsuit? I don't know.” 

“He's not doing this out of regret, or empathy. He's got another reason.” 

“I think I know what it is.” She paused. “I didn't want to talk about it earlier because you were so upset.” 

He grasped her hand. “I want to hear what you think.”

Alana nodded and helped Will sit up slowly. She put the lumbar pillow behind his back and settled on the bed facing him. “You said yourself that the Chesapeake Ripper loves to perform,” she said. “This was a performance.”

He nodded, but was silent. 

“The vast majority of cases that go to a grand jury result in indictments,” she continued. “It's mostly a formality, not something designed to really try a case. Hannibal would know this. His lawyers would tell him so. So, he made a bet. He knows he's going to be found guilty of the Ripper murders, even if he puts in a plea of not guilty and lets it go to trial, because of his basement. There is absolutely no way he can cover for that or explain it away. He's screwed, and he knows it. So he's playing games.”

Will nodded silently. 

“He wanted to get you upset. He wanted to get me upset. This is the only way he would be able to see us.”

“You think this is all about us?”

“Yes, I do.” She felt something inside her rise up – it was a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time. It was the rush she felt when the pieces of the puzzle came together, when she _understood._ “Will, you were exactly right when you said his coming to the safe house was sloppy. I couldn't understand why he did it – he was always so careful, and after years of killing and not getting caught, he does something like that? He could have fled. He _should_ have fled. But he needed to come to that apartment – he needed to see us.”

Will nodded. 

“He killed two agents and wounded a third to get to us. He was _desperate._ Not even the FBI could stop him.” 

“He had to settle accounts,” Will said.

“He was going to kill us both that night,” Alana said. “We were going to be his masterpiece – a message for Jack, for the FBI, for the world. We committed the ultimate wrong. We didn't love him any more. We could see him for what he really was, and it disgusted us.” 

“I couldn't appreciate his art any more,” Will said quietly. “So he no longer had use for me.” 

“And I didn't come to him any more, for friendship or advice,” Alana said. “So he no longer had use for me.” 

Will was silent, frowning. As she watched, his eyes filled with tears. “I said today I once considered him my friend. I meant it.”

“He was mine, too,” Alana said, grasping his hand. She swallowed hard before continuing. “He had it all planned. What he didn't expect was me with the gun. He could have checked easily enough; the fact that I had a permit is public record.”

“But he didn't bother, because he never thought you capable of it.” 

She nodded. “You don't know, but the way he looked at me after I shot him...he wasn't even angry. No rage. Nothing I would expect. He looked...fascinated, almost proud.” 

“You did what he always wanted me to do,” Will said. “You were becoming a killer.” 

“And that's why you stopped me from killing him.”

Will nodded. “It would have been murder.” 

“Are you sure about that, Will?” she whispered, making the deepest thoughts of her heart known. She'd replayed the scene over and over in her head countless times as she sat by his bedside in the ICU, hoping that he would survive. 

In spite of the appearance he cultivated, at his heart, Hannibal was a savage. If she'd emptied the clip of her Ruger into him, no one would have blamed her. She would have put down a sick animal. 

Some would have called it mercy. Will was calling it murder. What was the difference, really, when it came to someone like Hannibal? When it came to someone like Hobbs? 

“I'm never sure of anything any more,” he said. “I try to sound sure, but I'm not.” He lowered his eyes, as if he had done something wrong. “And it scares the shit out of me.” He sucked in a breath. Alana noticed he was trembling again. 

She leaned forward and kissed him on his cheeks, his jaw, and then finally his mouth. His arms wrapped around her as he returned her kiss. “I love you,” he murmured. “That, I'm sure of.” 

“Then that's enough,” she said back. “And I love you, too. Always.” She ended their embrace and got off the bed. “I'm going to book our flight home.” 

“Alana?” he asked. She turned around. “Yeah, baby?”

“Can you get my phone? I want to call Jack.” He sucked in another breath and let it out. “I should apologize.” 

She smiled at him. “Sure,” she said.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Will's inability to sleep seemed to have reversed itself once they returned home from Minnesota – he slept for nearly two days straight. Alana, also exhausted, slept too, and spent time in her office catching up on work. Though Will had reassured her he was feeling okay, she was still worried about him: he had barely eaten in days and she did not want to jeopardize his fragile recovery. 

On Friday, just before dinner, she woke him gently. He opened his eyes and blinked up at her, and then smiled a little. “I'm sorry to wake you,” she said, “but you need to eat.” She lay down on the bed next to him and snuggled into his neck, laying one of her hands across his stomach. She felt one of his hands in her hair. “What do you want?” she asked. 

Will let out a sigh. “Porterhouse steak, medium rare, with red potatoes and shallots in rosemary, garlic, and olive oil. Seasoned asparagus. White bread rolls with fresh butter. Chocolate cake for dessert and a nice bottle of Bordeaux Merlot to wash it all down.”

“Mmm, nope,” she said. 

“I want a lobster tail with the steak. That'll make it surf and turf.” He turned his head towards her. “You like surf and turf.” 

She nodded against his neck. “I do love surf and turf. Still, no.” 

“Please? I was in a coma for a month.” 

“No,” she said, laughing a little. “Soon, though.” 

“ _La belle dame sans merci,_ ” he said, grasping her hand and entwining his fingers in hers. He was quiet for a few seconds, stroking her fingers, before he spoke again. “And I want to eat it all in front of Lecter's cell, so that he can smell it. Chilton will be there, too, in that chair they used to put me in, with the restraints.”

“Mmm, you're cruel.” She kissed him on his neck. “Tell me more.” 

“Then we'll fuck on the table, in front of both of them. Give them a show. You'll still be wearing your dress and heels. They won't get the pleasure of seeing you naked – they both wanted to, but they'll be denied it forever. We'll break all the dishes, smash all the stemware. Lecter will clutch his spork and dream of better days. Maybe I'll toss him the T-bone when we're done.” 

Alana laughed, but she also felt a spark of arousal while he spoke. She liked it when Will talked dirty, when he let the dark side of himself out just enough for her to know it was there, but never to frighten her. He spent so much time on other people's fantasies that he rarely gave voice to his own. 

In the month he'd been out of the hospital, he'd shown little interest in sex. Alana wasn't frustrated, necessarily; he had been through a tremendous trauma. And she could handle a few months without sex – she'd gone for much longer without it before – but she missed it. She and Will had been having sex every day, often multiple times a day, before he went into FBI custody. The last time they'd made love was the night Hannibal had attacked them. 

She reached into his boxers and started stroking his dick. Will moaned softly against her ear. 

“I'll stop if you want me to,” she whispered, deliberately letting her breath tickle the sensitive skin against his neck.

“Don't stop,” he said. 

She continued to stroke him, feeling him start to grow hard underneath her fingers. She gripped his dick firmly but carefully, not enough to hurt but enough to give him pleasure as she stroked the shaft harder. He groaned incoherently against her. Alana grinned, enjoying the power she had over him. 

When he was almost erect, she moved down toward his lower belly and hips. Will had always stopped her here since he was injured. She pushed up his t-shirt a little, exposing part of the scar that looped around his abdomen. The scar was still pink and very sensitive. 

She started kissing him just below his navel and continued down the line of fine hair that trailed down his lower abdomen, broken only by the pink scar. She paused when she reached the scar, then planted a soft kiss on it. “I still love you, Will,” she murmured. “All of you. Nothing will change that.” 

He was looking at her. “I love you,” he said softly. 

She grinned again and pulled down his shorts, exposing him. The tip of his dick was glistening. She desperately wanted him inside her – the fire for him was burning deep in her belly – but she also didn't want to push him. There were other things they could do...they had come to know each other's bodies very well...

She gave him a long blowjob as he writhed with pleasure underneath her, growing harder with each passing minute. Then, with a groan and a gasp of her name – just enough time for her to ready herself – he came, and she licked up his come as he had so often reveled in the taste of her. 

He whispered her name and she crawled up to his arms, which he wrapped around her. He kissed her, first on the top of her head, and then full on the mouth, gently slipping the tip of his tongue into her mouth, caressing her tongue skillfully with his. She felt one of his hands reach inside her t-shirt and fondle her breast. She moaned in pleasure against him as her nipple hardened under his fingers. 

Soon she could barely stand it. She got off the bed, pulled down her silk pajama bottoms and panties and then lay back down, spreading her legs for him. “Please, Will,” she moaned. She felt him slip his fingers inside of her and then felt his tongue on her clit – she ran her fingers through his soft hair – and the bliss of his mouth against her clit and his fingers in her slick and wet vagina lengthened until she climaxed, coming with inarticulate noises. 

After she was done, Will lay beside her again. She looked at his face and her heart swelled with love for him...and then she giggled. 

“What's so funny?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. “I hope you're still hungry.” 

He smiled back in that boyish, delightful way she loved, and kissed her full on the mouth again. “I could eat,” he said, breaking the kiss and leaving her breathless. 

 

Alana woke in the middle of the night to find Will's side of the bed empty and cool. Missy and Charlie were still cuddled against her and Ike and Leo were sleeping soundly on their pillows on the carpet, but Sammy, Winston, and Duke were missing. 

Alana went downstairs silently, Missy following her. The first floor was quiet and the lamps were off, so Will wasn't watching TV or reading, as he often was. She didn't call his name, but soon saw that he was sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with his head in his hands. His back was shaking – he was crying. 

Alana sat down next to him. Once he had sensed her presence, he tried to wipe away his tears, but she stopped him. “Don't try to hide it,” she said. “It's okay.” She wrapped her arms around him and ran her fingernails soothingly down his back. “Bad dream?” she asked.

She felt him nod against her. 

“If you want to talk, I'm here,” she said. “And if you want space, I understand.” 

“I don't know what I want,” he murmured. 

She sighed. “Neither do I, lately.” 

He pressed his forehead against hers and threaded his fingers in hers. “I don't want space right now.”

“Okay,” she said.

“ _You_ don't want space?” he asked. 

“No,” she said softly. “I want to talk.” She leaned back a little so she could look into his face, all the while continuing to hold his hands. “Please tell me what happened, Will. Tell me what you're feeling. I want to know.” 

He hesitated, looking away from her. “I don't want to burden you,” he finally said. “You have enough to worry about.”

“Is this why you hide from me?” she asked. “Because you don't want me to worry?” 

He nodded. She sensed there was more – something he was afraid to say. She knew what it was. “And because you're scared, aren't you? You're scared that if I think you're not stable, I'll break up with you.” 

His face twisted again in grief. Alana knew, then, that her instincts were correct, but the knowledge brought her no joy. 

“Will, my love,” she said, trying to express the tenderness she felt in her heart in her voice. “I am here with you. I won't leave you. I'm not scared of you, because I know in my heart you would never hurt me.” She squeezed his hands. “You need to feel safe to express your anger, and I haven't given that to you. I'm sorry. You're turning it inward to yourself, and it's causing you to feel unstable.” 

He shook his head. “You don't have to be sorry. This isn't your fault.” 

“Part of it is. I told you that you were unstable. I rejected you because of it.” Her voice began to crack, and she took a breath to calm herself. “I knew there was something wrong, and I didn't trust my instincts. I didn't trust you. And now you don't feel safe expressing some emotions in front of me, because you still fear my rejection.” 

Will shook his head again. “It's not that...I don't want you to blame yourself.”

“I'm not blaming myself,” she said. “I'm acknowledging I have a part in this. I'm owning it, Will. I need to do it, and you need to let me.” 

He leaned forward and put his head into his hands. Alana decided to push him. “The problem is,” she said, “you don't know how to show your anger. You've spent years trying to understand the most dangerous and savage people in the country, and you were damn good at it. The best. But the second any feeling like that rose up in you, you choked it down, because you feared what you could become.” 

“Alana, _don't,_ ” he begged. 

“You're not a killer, Will,” she said softly. “You won't kill me. You won't even lay a hand on me in anger. You'd lay it on yourself first.”

She reached over and caressed the back of his head. “It's okay to let yourself feel, baby. You have to.”

He was silent for a while. “I don't know how,” he whispered. She heard him take a long breath. “I feel... _everything._ I used to be able to control it before, but now I can't. It all bleeds in and I can't contain it --” 

“Don't try,” she said. “Be angry. Curse. Cry. Don't treat me as if I'm made of glass. I won't do the same to you anymore.” 

Despite himself, he laughed a little. “Are you going to be mean to me now?” he asked, turning to her.

She smiled. “I'll be as mean as you want me to be.” 

He shook his head. “You're not mean.” 

“I think Jack would disagree.”

“No, he wouldn't.” Will grasped one of her hands and kissed it. Alana snuggled up next to him affectionately, laying her head on his shoulder. Will wrapped an arm around her waist. They sat like that, silently, for a long time. 

“I'm scared,” Will finally whispered. She hadn't expected him to speak, but the sadness in his voice made her heart ache. 

She squeezed his hand. “It's okay,” she whispered back, then leaned her head back and kissed him on his jaw. 

“I was scared of him,” he murmured. “Scared of what he would do to you, mostly. I didn't care what he did to me.”

“You did care,” she countered. “You were scared your hate for him was turning you into a monster.”

“I don't hate him any more,” Will said. “I should, but I don't. I feel angry, mostly. And a little pity, but only a little.” 

“So what do you fear now?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but knowing Will had to say it.

He sighed. “Myself.” He looked deep into her eyes – again, Alana was struck by how old and tired he looked, how much the past two years had aged him. 

“I'm not scared of you,” she said. “And I would be concerned if you _weren't_ scared of yourself. If you were a man without a conscience, without empathy or regret – that would scare me.” She squeezed his knee. “Come back to bed,” she said. “You need to rest.” 

She rose and helped him up – he was still moving slowly and carefully, though he was improving. The dogs rose around them as Alana wrapped an arm around Will to lead him upstairs. Before they could leave the room, however, Will gently spoke her name. She turned to him. 

“You said I had changed,” he said quietly, then swallowed hard. “I don't want to be different. I feel sometimes as if I've barely got a grip on who I am.”

Alana cradled his face in one of her hands. Her heart ached for him – he was not only grievously wounded on the outside, but inside as well. “You are different, Will,” she said softly, “but that's not a bad thing. I loved the person you were then, and I love the person you are now.” She kissed him – he kissed her back – and together, they went back upstairs and lay in their bed, the dogs choosing their favored places around them. Will was asleep in her arms within a few minutes, but she lay awake again, as she did too often now, staring into the darkness and holding on to the man she loved more than her own life – the man who had nearly died for her – the man who she feared would, eventually, slip out of her grasp no matter how hard she held on. 

She dreamed of the ocean when she finally fell asleep: she and Will went for a swim together, something they had yet to do in the waking world. Laughing, she challenged him to swim farther out with her. She heard him swimming beside her, keeping pace with her, but then an enormous wave hit and dragged her into its undertow. She struggled under the water until she breached the surface, calling out his name, but he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "La belle dame sans merci" is a lovely and mysterious poem by John Keats. 
> 
> Again, this chapter ran a bit long and I decided to split it into two parts.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Saturday – and Alana's time at home – was rapidly passing. She was pleased at the amount of work she'd been able to catch up on, but sad that she would have to return to work and leave Will alone again during the day. She was still worried about him: while he was moving more easily and had even started doing simple chores around the house, he was quiet and withdrawn most of the time. 

Alana was in her office typing up a research report when Will walked in. “Hi, baby,” she said. “What's up?”

Will dropped his eyes. Alana turned away from her computer and faced him. “What's going on?” she asked, noticing that he seemed afraid to say whatever it is that he came in to say. “Is this about the dream you had?” she asked. 

He raised his eyes up to her and nodded. 

Alana thought of her own disturbing dream from the night before. She had been relieved to wake with Will still sleeping soundly close to her. “It was just a dream,” she said. “We can talk about it if you want.” 

He shook his head. “You're down, too,” he said quietly. 

Alana nodded. “I am,” she said. “We both are. We've both been through a lot.” She got up from her desk, walked towards him, and put her arms around him. Will embraced her back. 

“I was thinking back to your birthday,” he said. Alana could feel the rumble of his throat as he spoke next to her ear. “That's the last time I remember you were really happy.” 

“I've been happy,” she said. 

“Not like that,” he murmured. “You were...relaxed. You laughed.” 

“I was drunk.” 

She felt Will shrug. “That too, but it doesn't change anything.” He was quiet for a long while. Alana looked up at him. “Say it, Will,” she said. 

He sighed. “I don't bring that out in you any more.” 

“You _do,_ ” she insisted. “Baby, I --”

“I'm depressed, Alana,” he said. “And I don't want to bring you down with me any further. You need your friends, your family...”

Alana's heart sank. “You know this is only temporary, right?” she said. “You _will_ get better. Both of us will. We've just...we've been through a lot.” 

He nodded solemnly, but said nothing; he just stroked her hair back from her forehead and shoulders. 

“And you're not the one bringing me down,” she continued. “Don't blame yourself for something you're not responsible for.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “What matters is that you're alive, that you're going to recover, and that we are finally safe. We'll get through everything else.” 

Will held her close and buried his face in her hair. “I know. I'm sorry.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “I just want you to be happy again.” 

“I will be,” she said. “But what about you? Don't you deserve to be happy?” 

He nodded, but Alana sensed his heart wasn't in it. Alana felt a surge of anger and regret – nearly all of her and Will's hard work over the past year had been undone. The haunted look on his face that had nearly disappeared over the summer was back. _He's slipping away from me,_ she thought. 

A voice, uninvited, in her head: _Be careful not to hold on too tightly._

She shoved the voice away. Will was looking at her as if he wanted to say something. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. 

He took a deep breath. “I've been thinking about your guest bedroom.” 

“ _Our_ guest bedroom,” she corrected him. “And why are you thinking about the guest bedroom?” 

“It's been empty for a while, hasn't it?”

Alana nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Jenny and Nicole stayed last. That was more than two years ago.” 

“We could ask them over to stay.” 

Alana didn't want to tell him _no,_ exactly – it wasn't that she minded their company, but she suspected they were busy with work – so she was careful to not let her face change. Then she smiled. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You're actually suggesting that we invite people here to socialize?” 

Despite himself, Will chuckled. “Yeah. I'll be good,” he said. “I'll be sociable.” 

Alana grinned at him. “I think that's a wonderful idea,” she said, and she meant it. 

 

By evening, their dinner party had six guests – Jenny and her wife, Nicole, agreed to come, as well as her friend Brian and his partner. Beverly and Saul were also set to join them. Will had been right, in his way, that talking to her friends made her feel better: she felt like a little black cloud that had been following her for a long time, so long she'd forgotten it was there, had lifted. She went to bed Saturday night excited about the next evening. 

Since it was such short notice, they had decided on fondue for dinner, since it could be cooked at the table: Saul, being a chef, had his own set, and Alana had one of her own as well. For his part, Will had made sure the dogs were clean and brushed, a big job in itself, and now he stood in the kitchen, chopping up bits of bread, fruit, and vegetables for the fondue. Alana, who was doing some quick cleaning, leaned in and kissed him on the neck, just under his left ear. “When you're done, I want you to go upstairs and sleep,” she said. She touched the small of his back lightly. 

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “I'll be okay,” he said quietly. 

“I know, but it would be uncouth for you to nod off at the dinner table, particularly if your head ended up in a plate of raw meat.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. Wouldn't want to be uncouth.” 

Alana rubbed his stomach a little, affectionately, and kept an eye on him when he left the kitchen and went upstairs to bed. He was moving slowly, clearly already tired. She knew her friends, particularly Jenny, Nicole, and Beverly, would know to take it easy on him tonight. 

After she had finished cleaning up, she went upstairs to shower and dress and found Will sound asleep on the bed, with four of the dogs sleeping on the floor near him. She ran a hand softly through his hair, but he did not wake. She covered him with the electric blanket he had been using since his release from the hospital. 

Jenny and Nicole were the first to arrive. Alana greeted both of them warmly – Nicole had been Jenny's partner since they were both medical students at Johns Hopkins, and now they were married and living in Baltimore. Alana explained that Will was asleep when they asked about him, and they followed her into the kitchen, Missy, Charlie, and Leo trailing them and smelling their ankles. 

“There are four _more_ dogs?” Nicole asked, trying to pet each one. 

“Yep,” Alana said, laughing. “Will found them all as strays.” Nicole squealed, half-dismayed and half-excited, and pet Missy, Charlie, and Leo even more. 

“Stop giving me that look,” Jenny said to Nicole, then turned to Alana. “Nicole's been wanting another one since Hershey died, but it was so painful to lose him. I can't do it again.” 

“If we find a stray, he's ours,” Nicole said. “Will's rule.” 

Alana laughed. “He'd like that.” 

“You have wine?” Jenny asked.

“Of course. It's in the fridge. Help yourself,” Alana said, handing her a glass. 

“I'm getting us beer,” Nicole called, already opening up the fridge. The three of them had slipped easily into a routine, since they had all been friends for so long. Nicole handed her wife the bottle of white wine, and then passed Alana a beer across the counter. 

Once their drinks were opened and served, Jenny spoke. “How are you?” she asked Alana, pointedly.

Alana sighed. “I'm okay, mostly. I try to avoid the news.”

“How were things with the grand jury?”

“Weird. Very weird.” 

“How's Will?” Nicole asked.

“Completely traumatized,” Alana said softly. Both Jenny and Nicole nodded solemnly. “This whole thing was his idea, actually,” she said. “He noticed I was down and wanted me to feel better.” 

“Are you still working with him?” Jenny asked.

Alana nodded. “I should recommend him to someone else,” she said, “but I don't think he'd trust anyone else. He's been burned pretty badly by psychiatrists.”

“No fucking kidding,” Nicole said. “Have _you_ talked to anyone?”

Alana shook her head. “I've been focused on Will, and the investigation, and work.”

“Do you feel like you should?” Jenny asked. “Alana, it was _Dr. Lecter,_ ” she said, when Alana paused. “He nearly disemboweled you partner in front of you. You _shot_ him.” 

“He fed you human flesh,” Nicole muttered. “Fucker.” 

Alana nodded. “I've been thinking about calling Valerie again. And not just for me – for both of us, actually.” 

“For couples counseling?” Jenny asked.

“No,” Alana said, shaking her head. “Will and I aren't fighting. I don't think Will has the energy to fight about anything, actually. But I'm not sure how to dig him out this time.”

“Because you're stuck, too,” Jenny said. Alana nodded. 

Just then, the doorbell rang – Brian and his partner, Manuel, came in, followed a few minutes later by Beverly and Saul. As Alana greeted them, Will came downstairs, walking slowly and stiffly. He looked tired and a little pale. Beverly greeted him with a long hug – she hadn't seen him since he was in the hospital. After he had shaken hands with Saul, Alana grasped his arm and introduced him to Manuel and Nicole, who were the only guests he had never met before. 

There was a lot of noise for a while as everyone lavished the dogs with attention and drinks were served. Will had to refuse the alcohol, since he was still on painkillers; Alana made him a cup of green tea instead. 

Alana and Saul were bustling about the kitchen getting dinner ready when Brian briefly went outside and came in, carrying his guitar case. “What do you say?” he said to her with a wink.

Jenny grinned. “She'd better,” she said, “or you all will have to listen to me.”

“It's like two cats screaming,” Nicole said, shaking her head. 

“You sing?” Beverly asked Alana. 

“Alana has a beautiful voice,” Will said approvingly. 

Alana felt herself blushing. She hadn't sung – really sung – for a long time, not since she and Will had gone to the karaoke bar. Sometimes she would sing along to the radio, or to something on her music player as she cooked or got dressed, but lately she had felt too sad to sing. “Okay,” she finally said, and there was a cacophony of applause and approving noises. “But _after_ dinner.”

“When we're all drunk, you mean,” Brian said, laughing.

“I hope not,” Alana said. “Closing time _will_ be enforced tonight. Y'all don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.” 

There was a round of laughter, and then everyone settled back into their drinks and conversation. After Alana and Saul had readied the cheese for the first course, she stole a glance at Will. He was quiet. In his effort to please her, he had overestimated his own strength – the pinched look around his eyes that indicated pain and exhaustion was starting to appear. He had not been around so many people at once in a long time. 

Alana tapped Beverly on the shoulder, again stealthily glancing at Will to make sure he wasn't looking at them. Beverly turned and looked at her. “Can you take Will to the living room and have him sit down with you?” Alana asked her. “He's in pain and overwhelmed, but he doesn't want to say anything.” 

“Yeah, of course,” she said.

“You should ask him to show you his record collection. He does have some good ones. Don't let him lift anything, though.” 

Beverly nodded, and within a minute or so, she was talking to Will. Alana settled in to talking with Jenny and Brian and Nicole, and, after a burst of laughter from Saul and Manuel, she saw Beverly walking out of the kitchen next to Will. 

Alana sighed, relieved that she had friends she could trust to be discreet and delicate and nonjudgmental. She knew Will would see through the ruse, but she also knew he would be grateful to rest. And he knew Beverly well, and felt comfortable with her. 

Alana and her friends had finished their first round of drinks and Saul had offered to get dinner set up in the dining room before she was finally able to check on Will and Beverly. As Alana had suggested, Beverly was looking through Will's record collection, while he sat on the sofa talking to her.

When Beverly saw her approach, she looked up and smiled. “Alana, did you know Will knows the entire history of electronic music?”

“Will knows everything.” Alana leaned down behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, crossing them in front of his chest. She saw and felt Will raise his hands and caress her arms, and she leaned her head against his cheek affectionately. “I don't know everything,” he said, his voice rumbling against her. 

“Close to everything, then,” she said, smiling. She gave Will a quick kiss on the cheek and rose. “Saul's getting the fondue set up. Come and get seats.” 

Beverly rose from her seat, taking her wineglass with her; Alana kept an eye on Will as he rose from the sofa slowly. She wrapped an arm around his waist. “We'll be right there,” she told Beverly.

Beverly nodded, smiling a little, and then headed into the dining room where the rest of the guests were milling about.

Alana turned to Will. “Thank you for this, my love,” she said quietly. “I didn't know how much I needed it until now.” 

He nodded and, very gently, kissed her temple and stroked her hair. “I love you,” he murmured. 

“I love you, too,” she murmured back. Smiling, she squeezed his waist and walked with him to the dining room, where their guests were waiting. 

 

After dinner, Manuel arranged the logs in the firepit on the back porch according to Alana's orders – she'd told him she was a Girl Scout and learned more than how to sell cookies – and, after the porch furniture was rearranged, they were all sitting together around the warmly crackling fire. Alana sat next to Will, his arm felt warm around her waist and his palm warm against her back. Brian had his guitar on his lap and was tuning it. 

“Alana, babe, you mind?” Nicole asked, pulling a joint out of a pack of cigarettes.

“No,” Alana said. “You know that.”

“The Feds are here,” Brian said in a singsong voice. 

“This Fed won't say anything,” Beverly said, smiling. 

The joint was lit and passed around, with most of the guests partaking, including Beverly. After he was finished tuning his guitar, Brian spoke. “So, as most of you know, we have been waiting for many... _many_ years for Alana to finally settle down with someone.”

“Anyone,” Jenny piped in. 

“But, in spite of our best efforts – honestly, we don't even know that many straight people, we really tried – Alana remained stubbornly single.” 

Alana laughed along with the rest of the group. “It wasn't _stubbornly,_ ” she said. 

“ _Anyway,_ ” Brian said, cutting her off. “We are all very happy that you have finally found someone to share your life with.” 

Alana smiled, filled with affection for her old friends. Her guilt at getting so swept up in everything over the past two years had been assuaged – they had welcomed her back with open arms, and they were the same loving and generous people she'd always known them to be. 

“Brian and I have a present for you and Will,” Manuel said. He sat up straighter and Brian began to play his guitar – it was an arrangement of Alicia Keys's “No One.” Manuel had a beautiful, soulful voice – Alana had heard him sing many times – and they all went silent listening to his voice soar into the night. She felt her eyes fill with tears and she remembered many nights with her friends spent just like this, filled with music and food and laughter. 

She lay her head against Will's shoulder and grasped his hand. He squeezed it back. 

Manuel finished the song and they all applauded and whooped. He smiled sheepishly. “Your turn now,” he said. 

She felt an unexpected surge of stage fright. She had sung with her friends so many times so she was confused at the feeling. She glanced at Will, who smiled at her, and the feeling faded. 

She sat up straight and Brian started to play. She recognized the first few bars of their cover of “Dreams” by The Cranberries, starting to sing at her cue. 

She had arranged this song with Brian when they were living together in Baltimore with Jenny, before they had all graduated from Johns Hopkins. The song took her back to those days – the bone-deep exhaustion, alleviated by hits from a large bong they called Big Blue that sat on their coffee table. Jenny, crying on the sofa, trying to figure out how to tell her parents she had fallen in love with a woman, and Alana not knowing at all what to do and feeling like she should. Alana finding she had talent at cooking and baking, and throwing dinner parties for every small occasion. Cigarettes and pot and beer on the balcony, her face and hands cold from the wind, guys telling her she was beautiful and her ignoring them, because she was in love with someone else, someone who couldn't possibly love her back –

Someone who was incapable of loving her back, she knew now. 

And now she looked at Will, who sat next to her and smiled contentedly as he listened to her sing: the first man she had ever truly, deeply loved, with passion and fire in her soul but also warm comfort and softness. The man who knew her better than anyone and loved what he knew, and had never wanted anything else from her in return but to be believed in, to be loved back, to be understood. 

She and Brian had originally arranged this song because they both liked it and it was fun to play, but something deep within her – she didn't know what else to call it besides _kismet,_ though she didn't believe in fate – told her that it was meant for this moment twelve years later. Her face was a little older now and most of her idealism gone, but she had gained so much more than she lost. 

The song ended to applause and whooping. Alana leaned back and took another sip of her beer. “You're not done yet,” Brian said, smiling. “Don't get comfortable. You've got two years' worth of singing for us to make up for.” 

They laughed and Alana sighed dramatically. “Okay,” she said, “if you _insist._ ” 

Brian started playing again – the opening notes of “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac. Brian's warm singing voice backed up hers, and she heard most of her friends joining in on the chorus. As she sang, she felt as if a weight had lifted from her and had flown away into the trees and sky around them. How many times had she and Brian and Jenny and Nicole sat together just like this, singing for hours on end, releasing their stress and sadness through music? 

When the song was done, Will pulled her close and kissed her. She was shocked by such an open sign of affection from him – he was always so quietly reserved around other people – but she gladly returned his kiss. 

“One more?” she heard Brian ask once the kiss was done. She nodded, patting Will on his knee and smiling at him fondly. 

Brian began to play once more – another Fleetwood Mac song, “Landslide.” It had been Alana's favorite song as a teenager: she still remembered the first time she'd heard it, and it had seemed to reflect the shifting world within her. She had listened to it many times after her grandmother died. She sang, swept up in the memory of the old Alana Bloom, whose death was the first real sorrow she'd ever known. 

Her voice cracked on the last line, but she finished. When she stopped singing, she expected the usual applause, but everyone had gone silent. Jenny was wiping away tears. Alana saw that Will was crying openly and was almost frantic with the effort of trying to control himself. She leaned over and hugged him as tightly as she dared. “I'm sorry,” he whispered in her ear.

“Don't be,” she whispered back. She ran her hand up his back. “It'll be okay. I promise.” Pulling out of the hug, she then cradled his face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth, looking deep into his sad eyes. 

She heard sniffling and murmuring from her friends. “Alana, that was so beautiful,” she heard Nicole say. Will grasped her hand and pulled her gently towards him so that she was leaning against him again. She relaxed, laying her head on his chest. 

“Brian, sing 'Sara Smile' next,” Jenny begged. “I haven't heard that one in so long.” 

Alana cuddled with Will while Brian and Manuel sang. Will's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. He rested his head against hers and she threaded her fingers through his, grateful to whatever or whomever it was that had kept him alive to be with her, whatever it was that had not let him die on the floor that cold, terrible night in Baltimore. 

Will was damaged, she knew, but she still had hope for him. She always had hope for him, and he responded to that hope. And if she could have hope for him, perhaps there could be hope for herself, too, for her own healing. _Baby steps,_ she told herself. _Let go of your horror and your sorrow for a few minutes, for a few hours. And someday, before you know it, it will be easier. Nothing is permanent._

Will had told her his anger had turned, instead, to pity. Maybe hers could too, if she gave herself enough time. For now, she breathed away the dark shadow that had haunted her and tried to fill herself up instead with warmth, both of the fire and of the love she felt in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support! I'm sorry this chapter took an unusually long time. 
> 
> I've posted videos for all the songs here on my Tumblr, but I urge you to give them a listen, if you never have before. If music be the food of love, play on...


	30. Chapter Thirty

Valerie Shulman had been Alana's psychiatrist, on and off, for close to ten years. It was common for psychiatrists and therapists, particularly those who worked with trauma patients as Alana did, to suffer burnout and even become affected by their patients' traumatic experiences. Alana initially began seeing Valerie as a means of support outside of Hannibal and her professors at Johns Hopkins, but while her professors and Hannibal became her colleagues, Valerie remained her psychiatrist.

Valerie was quick to respond to Alana's request for an appointment. Alana debated telling Will that she was going back to see her psychiatrist – while he had acknowledged that his ability to support her was limited, she suspected being actually confronted with that fact would be upsetting to him. In the end, she decided that she wanted to be honest, and told him during dinner that evening. 

He took the news as well as she expected. Alana emphasized that she wasn't seeing Valerie again because of anything Will had done, or for anything he was lacking as a partner. “I just need an objective opinion and a source of support outside of all of this,” she said. “Hannibal's roots run deep in my life. Most of my colleagues were his colleagues. All of my professors knew him. Brian, Jenny, and Nicole knew him.” 

“But your psychiatrist doesn't know him?”

“She knows _of_ him – everyone in the area does, Hannibal was very well-known – but she didn't know him personally, no.” She grasped his hand. “I trust her, Will. I trust her judgment and her opinion, as you trust mine as your doctor.” 

“You don't have to ask my permission to see your doctor,” he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. 

“I'm not asking your permission,” she said, carefully controlling her voice in response to his prickliness. “However, I don't want you to feel as if your support is inadequate.”

“It is, obviously,” he said. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “This is coming out all wrong. I want you to go, if it will make you feel better.”

“It will,” she said. “Baby, remember, we're only human, okay? We can't be everything to each other, or even to ourselves.” She rose from her chair, collected their plates, and then kissed him fondly on the crown of his head. She started to clean up the kitchen, but noticed that he stayed in his chair for a while, looking absently out of the window. 

It made her feel helpless to realize how profoundly depressed he was, and how little she seemed to be able to help him. Just a week earlier, they had been standing together in a parking lot in Minnesota and Will had asked her if he should be hospitalized. She knew that the question itself had been an insight into the desperation that he was afraid to voice, but that she could see coiled inside his eyes and the tense way he held his body. 

Will had survived his first round with Hannibal – the deception, the manipulation, the horror of his betrayal and the depths of his depravity. She had been there with Will to pick up the pieces. But the Will she saw now was different, even, than the man that had emerged from the hell of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. There was no vendetta left to pursue: Hannibal was in his cage now, likely for the rest of his life, and now Will was left with emptiness and the pain of a body and soul that might never truly heal. 

Alana walked over to him and sat down beside him again, ignoring the dirty dishes still on the table. She grasped his hand again and covered it with hers, but said nothing. Will wanted to be silent, and she let him have his silence. 

Outside, the twilight deepened into night. “I need to let the dogs out,” Will murmured. 

“You do,” she replied, but she still didn't take her hands off his. They fell into silence again. 

Finally, after close to half an hour, Will spoke. “Alana, do you know what susto is?”

“Yes,” she said. “It's a Latin American malady. Soul or spirit sickness. It's associated with witnessing trauma.” 

“One of the last places my dad and I worked before he bought the house in Lafayette was in Biloxi,” he said. “There was an older man there – I don't know where he was from, exactly, but it was definitely someplace in South America. One day I was working alone with him and he asked me why I was so sad all the time. I didn't know what to tell him, because I'd never thought of myself as sad before.”

Alana nodded and squeezed his hand. 

“He said he thought I had susto and that I must have seen something bad. I told him I didn't remember what it was I had seen.” 

“You had seen a lot of bad things by then,” Alana said quietly. 

“And I stupidly went and saw more,” Will said bitterly. “I remember he told me I needed to stay away from bad things. He said, 'When you are a man, find a nice woman. Spend your life by the sea with her. Fix the boats. Have children and dogs. Don't go looking for trouble.'” Will swallowed hard. “He was right.” 

Alana opened her mouth to speak, but Will continued. “I have this strange fantasy,” he said, and she saw his eyes fill with tears, “that, when I almost died, my soul must have left my body. And it came back, but not the same. It's like a puzzle where a piece just fits, but not completely. It's too small for the space it needs to fill.” He sighed and then smiled his sad smile. “Stupid, isn't it?” 

“It's _not_ stupid,” Alana said. “It makes perfect sense.” She sighed, considering her tone – she didn't want to sound like she was analyzing him. “What you're feeling is common for victims of trauma. It's common to feel depressed, to question yourself, to have intrusive thoughts or memories.”

“I don't want to be like this.”

“Give yourself time,” she said. “We've both been through a lot – you especially.” She rubbed his hand. “I used to put so much of my faith in what I knew was right or wrong, possible or impossible. And everything about that has changed for me.” 

Will nodded. The tears in his eyes were falling down his cheeks. “We're not the same people we were,” he murmured.

“No, we're not,” she said softly. “But maybe we can be better.” 

Will's face twisted as he began to cry. Alana reached over and hugged him; she was crying, too. “I'm sorry,” he murmured to her, agony in his voice. “I'm sorry I can't help you.” 

“You do help me,” she said. She let go of him but still kept his hand in hers. “Honestly, I don't know if I could have gotten through all this without you. No one except for you can really understand what I've been through. My friends feel some righteous indignation, but none of them were as close to Hannibal as I was.” 

“I wasn't as close to him as you were.”

“The Hannibal I thought I knew was a lie,” she said. “He was a disguise. The monster is the real Hannibal. You were the only one who really, truly knew him. You recognized him for what he was long before any of us did.” 

She leaned forward and kissed him, and was pleased when he kissed her back. After a long, pleasurable kiss, she pulled apart from him and cradled his face in her hands. “I love you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“I love you, Alana,” he said quietly. 

“It'll be okay,” she said, stroking his face. “It's time to focus on us now. It's time to heal.” 

He nodded, but the desperate sadness was still coiled behind his eyes and in the hunched way he held his shoulders. 

 

Alana's appointment with Valerie was scheduled for late the next afternoon. Alana was surprised to feel relief when she walked up to Valerie's familiar brick office building in downtown D.C.; reassured when she opened the waiting-room door to find the same comfortable furniture and floral arrangements that had been there when she had last seen her, a few years before.

Valerie greeted her warmly and Alana sat down on the sofa. There was a lot that she wanted to say, but she knew she only had fifty minutes for the session. They spent a few minutes catching up, and then Valerie listened patiently as Alana told her about Will and about their year trying to catch Hannibal. 

At one point, Valerie cut her off. “You keep trying to justify your relationship with Will to me,” she said. “Why?”

“For a lot of reasons. Primarily because he's my patient,” Alana said.

“The court forced him on you,” Valerie replied evenly. 

“They did,” Alana said. “I could have given him a referral, but he doesn't trust anyone else, for obvious reasons. He's a very private man. And he would be a prized patient for any psychiatrist.”

“But not for you?”

“No,” Alana said, shaking her head. “He even offered to let me write about him because I'm up for tenure this year, and I refused.” She sighed. “I want to help him, not study him.” 

“What drives your desire to help him?” 

“I love him,” Alana said. “I see him lonely, and hurt, and isolated, and I want to help him.” 

Valerie turned her head quizzically. “Is there more to it than that, Alana?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You were the one who referred Will to Dr. Lecter,” Valerie said. “Without that referral, Dr. Lecter and Will might never have met.”

“And none of this would have ever happened,” Alana said quietly. 

“You put a lot of the blame on Will's incarceration on his supervisor and Dr. Lecter,” Valerie said. “And while I agree with you that they deserve blame, I want to ask you: do you feel like there's a part of yourself that deserves blame, too?” 

“Yes,” Alana said. “I failed him, too. Will always insisted Hannibal was responsible for the murders that he was accused of. He insisted he was framed. I called him delusional. I told him to stop talking about it.” She felt her eyes fill with tears. “I told him to take his medications, even though they were making him sick. I told him to plead guilty to crimes he didn't commit.” The tears were now spilling from her eyes onto her cheeks. “And he did it all, because I asked him to.”

“Because he loved you,” Valerie said. 

“Yes,” Alana whispered, and a sob escaped her throat. Unwillingly, her mind flashed back to the last time she had seen Will in his cell, so sick from the drug cocktail Chilton had given him that he was unable to move. And now she knew that all that time, he had been waiting for the opportunity to kill himself. He had spent long nights contemplating suicide, yet still not wanting to do it for her sake, until the door was closed between them. 

Alana broke down and began to weep. Between heaving breaths, she told Valerie all she could – about how Will had been drugged, how he had kept a journal for her so that she could understand why he wanted to die and not blame him, how he had worried for her and protected her. 

Valerie listened silently, not interrupting her. 

“He did it for me... _for me._ He would have died to protect me. He was nearly killed protecting me. And now he feels guilty that he can't help me when it's me who owes everything to him.” 

Valerie waited while Alana calmed herself and wiped her tears away. When Alana had quieted down, she spoke. “Do you feel like you need to do more than help him, Alana? Do you feel like you need to fix him? To make him whole?”

Alana nodded. “A huge part of me is screaming that it's wrong and that I'm in over my head, but I love him so much...and I want him to be okay.” She shook her head. “I know I can't fix him. I know, rationally, that I shouldn't even try.”

“I don't think you shouldn't try.” 

Alana paused. She had imagined what she thought Valerie would say so many times, but it wasn't this. 

“There's no hard and fast rule about things like this, Alana,” Valerie continued. “There are no universals. We can say, 'You should never try to fix someone,' but I'm not sure if that advice applies here. Your partner has been severely traumatized, and you have the knowledge and experience to help him recover.”

“Will wants help. I just don't know if he'll accept it from anyone but me.”

“Or is it rather that _you're_ having trouble letting go of _him_? You're having trouble surrendering his care to another doctor, who might victimize him again or view him as a curiosity rather than a human being?” 

“I thought, with Hannibal, he would get the best care. But I was wrong.” 

“You don't trust your judgement any more?”

“I don't know. Not when it comes to Will, anyway.” Alana sighed. “Every psychiatrist who has met him, save for my friends who know he's off-limits, has wanted to study him, to experiment on him. I heard it all the time at the FBI. People were always talking about him as if he wasn't human. They knew we were friendly and they would ask me if I planned on studying him.” 

“You think most doctors would be too tempted by the possibilities of research to give him the care he needs?” 

“It's my fear,” she said. “Will has asked to be hospitalized,” she continued. “He doesn't fit the criteria for involuntary commitment, and without health insurance he can't afford it.” 

“But yet he is depressed enough to consider it, in spite of his dislike of psychiatry.”

Alana nodded. 

“His depression is weighing heavily on you, too.” 

“And my own,” Alana said. “I got through everything by keeping the focus off myself. I was afraid of how I would feel if I stopped and thought about everything that happened.”

“And now that Will is home and recovering, you've had more time to think about what happened to you.” 

Alana nodded. “I feel... _violated_. I think back to all the conversations Hannibal and I had, and I don't know what to feel about them. His guidance shaped so much of my career, but he was a liar and a murderer...a monster who came to kill me and almost killed my partner.” 

Valerie was again silent, listening to her speak.

“He murdered one of my patients, one whom he professed to care about. A young woman. She had her entire life ahead of her, and she could have recovered from her trauma, but Hannibal killed her.” Tears filled her eyes again. “She and I sat down at a dinner table with him, ate with him, spent time with him. And he killed her. He chopped off her ear and forced it down Will's throat. He dismembered her. He ate her.” Alana choked down a sob. “I don't know what was in the food he gave me. I'm afraid to think about it. I'm afraid to think of a lot of things.”

“Then don't push yourself,” Valerie said. “We can work together, here, if that's what you want. And I would give you the same professional advice for discussing Dr. Lecter with Will, if you continue to treat him. You both need boundaries.”

“Do you think I should refer Will to another doctor?”

“Who would you refer him to? Who do you trust?”

Alana sighed. “No one, really. Except you, and I know you can't take him.”

“I'd love to see you both for couples' counseling, when the time is right.” 

“Because we're going to need it,” Alana murmured.

“Yes,” Valerie said. “This is why you need to establish boundaries, and soon. You've both gone through terrible trauma. You know what can happen.” 

“I do,” Alana said, nodding. 

 

It was late in the evening before Alana returned home; the traffic from D.C. to her home was usually heavy. Her session with Valerie weighed heavily on her mind: Alana hadn't realized, until she had really started to talk, how much fear and sadness she was operating under. She had cried most of the way home. It had felt good, but she found that she also longed for Will. His presence alone had become a comfort to her. 

He was sleeping on the sofa when she arrived home. She sat down next to him and kissed him awake. “Hey,” he said when he woke, shifting slightly so that he could caress her arm. “How did everything go?”

“Okay,” she said truthfully. 

“You're all puffy,” he said, reaching up to touch her face.

“I was crying a lot,” she said quietly. “But it's okay. I needed to cry.” She patted his thigh gently. “How are you?”

“Okay. I started dinner. I'll finish it up while you go in the shower.” 

Something inside her stirred and she began to cry again. She kicked off her shoes and lay down next to Will, sobbing onto his shoulder. Will said nothing, but just held her close, his hand caressing her back. “Can we just stay here together for a while?” she asked softly. She felt Will place a kiss on the crown of her head, an affirmative.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

At the end of that chilly, rainy April, Bella Crawford died. Will was still weak, but he and Alana attended the funeral out of respect for Jack. 

The church was packed with coworkers and friends, and even members of Congress and diplomats that Bella had known from work. Neither Will nor Alana had ever met her, but Alana found herself surprisingly moved by the service, and cried openly during Jack's stunning and loving eulogy for his wife. Alana felt her emotions were so close to the surface lately, especially after she had begun to see Valerie again, and she grasped Will's hand tightly, grateful that she hadn't had to bury the person _she_ loved. 

After the church service and burial, they went to the repast at Jack's home for his and Bella's closest friends and family. Beverly came up and hugged Will, gently but warmly, and noticed the pinched look of pain in his face that had been steadily growing since the graveside service. “You okay, champ?” she asked. 

“Just tired,” he said, giving her his sad smile. Beverly was able to see through the lie; she took it upon herself to find a seat in Jack's living room for Will, and she let him lean on her and supported him as he sat down. Once he was seated, Will waved Alana and Beverly away, reassuring them he would be fine, and they went together to the dining room where a spread of food was laid out for the guests. 

“No offense, Alana, but Will looks terrible,” Beverly said quietly. 

“I know,” Alana said, sighing. “He's recovering, but it's slow. Too slow. He should be stronger by now. His doctors at Johns Hopkins told me to put him into a rehabilitative hospital, but we didn't have the money to pay for it.”

Beverly shook her head. “What about his bills from the hospital?”

“I have them. I've been hiding them from him. He's been billed over a million dollars so far.” 

“Fuck,” Beverly cursed, half-moaning. “How do they expect him to pay for that?”

“No one seems to care,” Alana said. “No one's contacted either of us.” She paused, then spoke again, lowering her voice even more. “I have a litigator on retainer. He's a friend of my father's. If nothing's done soon, I'm taking Will in to see him.” She looked at Beverly, curious to know what her friend would think of a lawsuit against her employer. 

“A bunch of Will's property is still in evidence,” Beverly said. “Max – Max Fontaine, he's been running the BAU in Jack's absence – he's said that he wants to close the case against Will once and for all, but bureaucracy is in the way.” 

“What needs to happen? Is there anything Will or I can do?”

Beverly shook her head. “You might have to think about filing that lawsuit. It'll get their attention, at least. I don't know when Jack will be back to sort things out.” 

Alana was filling a plate for Will when she felt Jack touch her shoulder very gently – fondly. “Alana,” he said. He looked drained and her heart ached in sympathy for him.

“Hello, Jack,” she said, putting the plate down and offering him her hand. “I'm so sorry about Bella.”

“Thank you,” he said automatically, but then his demeanor changed slightly. “I'm glad you and Will are here.”

“Of course,” she said. “Will wouldn't have missed it. He's in the living room.” 

Jack nodded. “I want to talk to him. You'll stay until I've been able to?”

“Yeah,” Alana said, nodding. “Go. I know there's a lot more people who want to talk with you.” 

Jack nodded solemnly. Alana's heart ached for him – he had some family to help him through Bella's death, but they had never had any children of their own. Once the guests departed and Jack and Bella's family members returned to their own homes, the silence would be unnerving. Alana knew that all too well. 

She brought a plate of food to Will in the living room, and they ate there together, Alana carefully perched on the edge of the chair Beverly had secured for Will. They met Jack's brother and his family as well as his mother; they were kind people, and Alana and Beverly spent a long time talking to them. Will was mostly silent, speaking only when he was spoken to. 

They sat for close to two hours before Jack was able to make his way into the living room. “Don't get up,” he said, extending his hand towards Will. Will took it and they shook hands. “Jack,” he said. “I'm sorry about Bella.” 

“Thank you for coming, Will,” Jack said, a note of warmth in his voice. In spite of his grief, he seemed genuinely glad to see Will. “Do you and Alana mind coming into the kitchen with me? There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Will nodded; he already knew Jack had wanted to speak to him, because Alana had told him. “Sure,” he said. “But, honestly, it can wait. We don't have to talk shop today.” 

Jack shook his head. “No, I want to.” 

Will slid forward carefully to get up, but weakness had set in and he didn't have the strength to lift himself up. Alana helped him, sliding an arm underneath his shoulders and grasping one of his hands, allowing him to use her strength to lift himself out of the chair. She noticed Will was trembling and had broken out in a cold sweat. They would have to leave soon – he couldn't take much more. She hoped Jack would say whatever he had to say quickly. 

They walked with Jack to the kitchen, which still held food but was empty of guests. “Let me get you a chair,” Jack said, gesturing to Will. 

Will gave him a sad smile. “I'll stay standing. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get up if I sit down again.” 

Jack leaned against the counter. “I'm heading back to work this week,” he said quietly. “I...need to be there. I wanted to tell you that I'll be authorizing the release of your personal items from evidence. You have my word that the FBI won't pursue any charges against you for the copycat murders, no matter what, even if Dr. Lecter recants his confessions.” He sighed. “It's over, Will.” 

Will nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”

Jack looked at Alana and Will for a while, silently. “I'm sorry,” he said, finally. “I did wrong by you. By both of you.” He looked down at his feet for a moment, and Alana could see he was struggling with his emotions. He finally raised his head. “The time you have together is so short. You should treasure every moment.” 

Alana walked forward a few steps, and Jack let her hug him. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. 

A few tears fell from Jack's eyes; the first Alana had seen him shed all day. “Bella was still lucid just a few days before she died, and she and I had a long talk,” he said. “We talked about a lot of things, but this...whole case was one of them.” He shifted against the counter. “I got swept up because I needed something to take my mind off my wife,” he said. “Dr. Lecter preyed on that need – he was a friend to me when I needed one. But I know now that it was all a lie, and one of my biggest regrets is letting him have so much influence over me and my wife in the last time we had together.” 

“Jack, don't --” Alana began, but he raised a hand to stop her. “I should have known after that judge let you go, Will,” he said. “I should have called you then, talked to you, gotten your side of the story. But Dr. Lecter convinced me not to. He knew I was questioning myself and the case and he swooped in, in that way he always does, and kept me under his spell.” 

“You don't have anything to apologize for,” Will said quietly. “You came around.”

Jack shook his head. “Not soon enough,” he replied. “By the time I realized I was being conned, it was too late. He was already in with the FBI, already making friends.” He smiled in a way that was more like a wince. “I think the only reason why I still have a job is because they feel sorry for me,” he said. “And I don't want them to. I made a mistake and I deserve to be punished for it.” He paused. “The ironic thing is, Dr. Lecter was a shitty consultant. His profiles were always too vague to be of real help.” 

“They were purposefully vague,” Will said. “He's very keen.” 

“Not as keen as you,” Jack said. He looked pointedly at Will as he spoke. “Don't forget that.”

Evening was falling when Alana and Will said their goodbyes to Jack, Beverly, and their acquaintances from the FBI. Jack promised to call Will as soon as he could so that Will could pick up his belongings. Alana told Jack to call them if he needed someone to talk to, and invited him over to dinner as soon as he was ready. 

That night, after Will had slept, he and Alana made love. They went slowly – he was sitting up with her on top of him – but he felt good inside of her, and his mouth was warm and gentle on her lips and nipples. He caressed her clit with his fingers until they came together, moaning against each other. Afterward, they settled back into bed for sleep, and they threaded their fingers together in the darkness. They did not need to speak. 

 

May came in, warm and breezy, and with it came Alana's summer vacation. Two weeks after Bella's funeral, a thick envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to Will. It bore the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

Alana stood silently on the other side of the kitchen counter while Will read the contents. “I'm retired,” he said softly, placing the pages on the counter. “I'm getting a monthly pension and my benefits have been reinstated.” He smiled softly. “I have health insurance again. They've agreed to cover my surgeries and hospital stay.” 

“How do you feel?” Alana asked. 

He paused for a while. “Happy,” he said. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Relieved.” 

“Can I see what they said?” 

He nodded, and she walked over to where he stood and picked up the papers. The first page was a letter, signed by the director of the BSU and Jack Crawford, commending Will for his valued service for the FBI and apologizing for the “mistreatment” he had suffered. The words seemed a poor substitute, but that was the way words were – sometimes, able to convey everything, and other times, nothing even close. 

Behind the letter was a handwritten note from Jack:

_Will,_

_You fought the monsters, but never became one. I never told you how much I appreciated your help, and for that I'm sorry. I know this isn't enough, but it's a start._

_I will always be your friend._

_Give me a call if you're bored._

_Jack_

The rest of the packet explained Will's benefits from the FBI – his pension, which was generous considering he had only worked for the FBI for a relatively short time, his health insurance, and a check for a $50,000 “resettlement fund.” 

“I think it's a bribe,” Will said, as she examined the check. 

“Pretty sad excuse for a bribe,” she said, looking at him pointedly. She wrapped an arm around him and stroked his shoulder. “You okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “I'm okay,” he said. He handed her the check. “Take this,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You owe me _nothing_ ,” she said. “Keep it. You're probably going to need a new car, at least. I'm not sure if yours will run after two years in evidence.” She kissed him, and he kissed her back, the kiss awakening the warm passion in her heart and stomach as they embraced and she felt his hands on her back, underneath her braid. 

After they broke the kiss, Alana smiled at him. “You deserve a little celebration tonight,” she said. “What do you want? Do you want to see anyone?”

He shook his head. “Just you.” 

She smiled. “We'll go out to dinner.”

“I'll pay,” Will said, chuckling. “But no karaoke.” 

She grinned and patted his arm. “Put on your shoes and then we can go for our walk.” He nodded and made to leave the kitchen, but then turned back toward her, calling her name. She turned to him. “What is it, baby?” she asked.

“My medical bills have been coming here, haven't they?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yeah,” she said softly, nodding. “That's mainly why I told you not to check the mailbox. I didn't want you to be upset.” 

“I knew they were coming,” he said. “And I'm sure I owe a lot of money.” 

“You don't owe anyone anything, Will.” She swallowed hard – tears had filled her eyes. “You deserve a clean slate, or as much of one as you can get.” The tears were now falling from her eyes. “I'm so sorry for hiding the bills from you,” she said. “You were so fragile, and I didn't want to cause you any more pain.”

“I don't blame you,” he said. “I hid things from you, too, for the same reason.” 

She walked over to him and hugged him. “No more hiding,” she said. “Not any more.” She felt him nod against her. She leaned back and kissed him again, full on the lips, cradling his face. “Let's go for our walk,” she said. “I'll get the dogs.” 

 

Early the next week, Alana and Will drove to Quantico to retrieve Will's belongings from the evidence room at the BAU. 

Beverly was there to greet them. “Hey, champ,” she said fondly, hugging Will and then Alana. 

“Hi, Beverly,” he said. 

“I'll take you down to Evidence so you can get your things. Alana, Jack's in his office. He wanted to talk to you.” 

Alana nodded. They separated, with Will and Beverly heading towards the elevator and Alana heading further into the BAU, towards Jack's office. Out of the corner of her eye, Alana saw Beverly put an arm around Will, and she turned her head and grinned at her. Alana smiled back. 

Jack was in his office. He rose, oddly formal, and gestured for her to sit as she entered. The last time Alana had been here, she had left evidence of Will's innocence on Jack's desk, with Will listening to their entire conversation on her cell phone because he was terrified Hannibal would be there to harm her. Now Hannibal was in his own cage at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and Jack believed Will was innocent. 

Alana and Jack greeted each other, and she thanked Jack for coming through so quickly for Will. “It's really Beverly you have to thank,” he said. “She told me about Will's medical bills, and the fact that you were thinking about filing a lawsuit.” 

“Will doesn't know about it,” she said. “I knew he wouldn't want to sue, but he didn't deserve to be in debt for something that wasn't his fault, either.” 

“I understand,” Jack said. “And I'm actually glad about it, because it gave me a better hand to play to the higher-ups. As you can imagine, they were very eager to avoid a lawsuit.” He steepled his hands together in front of him. “If there's anything Will needs, just ask,” he said.

“I know something he needs but that he won't ask for,” Alana said. “Even though the murder charges have been dropped, they'll still appear on a background check if he tries to get another job. Misdemeanors are one thing, but five counts of premeditated murder are quite another.” 

“You want his records expunged?”

“Completely,” she said. “Clean slate. Anyone can find out about him if they do an internet search, but with his records expunged, it will answer the question of his innocence once and for all.” 

“He'll have to apply through the federal court system,” Jack said.

“I know,” Alana said, and he nodded. “But he'll likely need the FBI to make a statement.” 

Jack sat back in his chair. “Sealing the records may be a better alternative.”

“Whatever it takes,” Alana said. “This is going to follow him for years, if not for the rest of his life. Some people might always believe he's guilty. But a expungement or seal would be proof positive of the FBI's confidence in his innocence.”

Jack nodded. “I'll do my best,” he said. “It'll take some time, though.”

“We have time. Will's doctors have said he'll need at least a year to recover, and I intend that he take every day of that year.” She let out a slow breath – what she had to ask next was best for Will, but it would be hard for Jack. 

“I need one more thing from you,” she began. “I need you not to contact Will in relation to a case, no matter how hard it gets and no matter how much you think he can help you. He can't go back out into the field right now, and I'm not sure how he'll react if he has to get into the headspace of another killer. He's very traumatized.”

Jack nodded. 

“If he decides that he wants to come back on his own to consult, that's his decision,” she continued. “I can tell him how I feel about it, but I can't stop him. But right now, he needs to recover. And if you call him, he'll feel obligated to come back, to push himself to save lives. The only life he needs to worry about right now is his own.” 

Jack was silent for a while, leaning back in his chair. “Okay,” he finally said. “I'm assuming that we're going to lose you, too?”

Alana nodded. “I'm going to stay on a leave of absence, officially,” she said, “but I'm not sure if I'm coming back.”

“You're good at your job.”

She smiled ironically. “I've spent a lot of time trying to prove myself – to Hannibal, to my colleagues, to you and the BSU. This past year has taught me that there are other things in my life that are worth working on, too. I don't have the time to work two or three jobs and spend time with the people I love.” 

Jack looked sad. “Bella and I spent too much time at work,” he said quietly, rubbing his lip thoughtfully. “We should have spent more time together.” 

“You didn't know what was going to happen,” she replied gently, controlling her voice, filling it with compassionate tones. 

“Time is a funny thing,” Jack said thoughtfully. “We always feel like we have too much, or too little.”

“Never the right amount,” she said, thinking back to a stormy day in a federal courthouse in Baltimore when she had been aching for more time with the man she loved. She thought back to the same man, clinging to life in a hospital bed while she prayed to whomever was listening for more time. 

Time had been good to her so far, but she could never count on its generosity. 

 

When Alana got the text message from Will asking her to move her car to a back loading dock, she said a warm goodbye to Jack and reiterated her invitation for dinner. Ten minutes later, she was backing her car into the dock, where Will's belongings had been packed in cardboard boxes. 

Since Will couldn't carry anything too heavy, Beverly, Alana, and the assistant from Evidence loaded Will's things into the trunk and backseat of her car. After they had finished packing and said goodbye to Beverly and thank you to the assistant, Alana took the familiar route home from Quantico.

Will looked happier than she'd seen him in a long while. She asked him if he wanted to stop for dinner, but he was content with take-out. When they arrived home, he began to unpack his things and spoke to Alana about some of them. 

He was most excited about his computer, which had some projects he had been working on while he was in hiding in Baltimore, and his pocketknife, which was a gift from his father. “He gave this to me on my thirteenth birthday,” Will said. “We didn't have the money for gifts most of the time, but it was a big deal for him. He paid extra for the engraving.” 

Alana smiled. Though their relationship hadn't been perfect by any means, Will had loved his father very much, and he treasured anything that his father had given him. Alana had saved what pictures she could find of them together, and had bought a nice frame for them and hung them in the living room. 

He folded up the knife and put it in his pocket, then unzipped the case that held his rifle, pulling it out and laying it across the table. “You've never mentioned _that_ ,” Alana said, nodding towards the gun. 

“I thought it was lost, actually. I'm surprised it never disappeared from Evidence.” 

“Why?” 

“It's a Winchester,” Will said. “1894. One of the most popular guns ever made. Antiques like this one are highly desirable for collectors. My dad got it in my grandfather's estate and my grandfather received it from his father. It was passed down at least one more time before that. This one's so old the cartridges alone cost a fortune.” 

Alana picked it up and handled it. Real wood on the handle and barrel, and cold metal. It was in excellent shape, in spite of its age. If ever a gun could be said to be beautiful, this gun qualified. 

Will spoke as she examined the rifle. “My stepmom got almost everything in my dad's estate when he died; the only thing she gave me were the pictures, probably because I was in them. She didn't like guns, though. She asked me if I wanted it. To this day, I'm still shocked she asked me – I guess she didn't want to go through the hassle of trying to sell it.”

“And it's a good thing for you.”

“I think if she knew what she had, she would never have given it to me. I've never had it appraised, but it's probably worth thousands of dollars.”

Alana thought of the many difficult and lean years he'd told her about. “And in all this time, you'd never contemplated selling it?”

He shook his head. “I was hoping someday to pass it down to my own kid. That probably won't happen, though.” He grinned at her. “Want to shoot it, Annie?”

She smiled back. 

The next morning, they made their last stop: the Fairfax County police's impound lot, where Will's car had been for nearly two years. He wasn't sure if it would even start, but felt that it was worth trying to save, since the car was already paid off. The police at the impound lot gave him the keys, but said it would be best to tow it to a mechanic. 

The mechanic kept the car for two days before he called with the news: Will's car could be saved, but it would cost several thousand dollars. Time and weather and disuse had gotten to a lot of the parts and they would need to be replaced. “Are you sure you don't want a new car?” Alana asked, as they talked over the bill. 

Will shook his head. “I don't have the credit for a loan,” he said. “I'd have to pay cash, and that would take up most of my settlement. I'll pay for the repairs.” 

A week later, Will's old Volvo was finally parked in her driveway. He finally had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, but the only place he went was to a rehab facility four days a week, where he worked with a physical therapist on restoring his use of the abdominal muscles Hannibal's knife had torn through. It was painful and exhausting, but eventually he could stand straighter and walk confidently without assistance. 

The deep depression that had followed him home from Johns Hopkins lifted as the summer passed. They traveled for the first time, loading the dogs into the back of the Volvo and driving out to parks, where they made love under clear stars away from city lights. 

“We should go camping this year,” he said, stroking her hair as she lay naked against him. “Not now, though. In October, when it's cooler.” 

“Will you teach me how to fish?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I'd love to.” 

May proceeded blissfully into July. Around the middle of the month, Alana said she wanted to see the ocean again – she had taken vacations with her family to Virginia Beach as a child and young teenager – and Will was trying to find a hotel that accepted multiple pets when she went outside to get the mail. Underneath the pile of advertisements and junk mail was a small mauve envelope, addressed to both of them. It didn't even register with her for a few moments, until she recognized the handwriting.

The envelope was from Hannibal Lecter.


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Alana stared down at the mauve envelope in her hands. She had stopped walking back towards the house and stood still in her driveway.

Aside from the postage, there was another stamp on the envelope that indicated it was correspondence from an inmate at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hannibal had included his inmate number in the return address – _helpful as usual_ , she thought ironically. 

“You _motherfucker_ ,” Alana cursed, a surge of rage rising in her chest. She was tempted to crumple up the letter. No, that wasn't enough – she would light up the firepit in her yard and toss it in, cursing at it as it burnt. 

But she didn't do anything like that. She walked back into her house and shut the door behind her, then walked into the kitchen. Will was still on his laptop; he looked up at her, very briefly, before redirecting his eyes back to the screen. Then, obviously noticing her mood, he lifted his eyes again. “What happened?” he asked. 

“We got a letter from Hannibal,” she said to him, holding out the letter so that he could take it. 

“You didn't open it, did you?” he asked, as he took the letter from her and examined the envelope.

“Of course not,” she said. “We have to call Jack. Hannibal shouldn't be communicating with either of us. It could be an attempt at witness tampering.” She suddenly realized she was shaking from anger. “I can't believe it actually got here,” she said. “Don't they have people there who screen mail?” 

Will shrugged. “He probably bribed the guy to let it by. It used to happen all the time there.” He threw the letter down on the table in disgust. “But he knew we wouldn't open this. He knows we know the law.” 

“It's to let us know he hasn't forgotten us,” Alana said. “It's psychological terrorism, designed to upset us. This kind of behavior is common to obsessives and stalkers. What the letter actually says doesn't matter; it's the fact that it got here.” She went to her cell phone, which had been charging in another part of the kitchen, and called Jack. 

She left a message, telling him that a letter had arrived from Hannibal addressed to both her and Will; she told him that while neither of them had any intention of opening it, she wanted the FBI to take it in for examination. “I'm putting it in my office for safekeeping,” she said, “but I think you should have someone pick it up as soon as possible. I don't want it in my house.” She hung up and sighed, staring out the kitchen window. While she was on the phone, Will had risen and put an arm around her. 

“I'm debating calling Chilton and giving him a piece of my mind,” she said. 

“I have no objection,” he said. “He deserves all the shit you can give him. But it would be more effective coming from the FBI.”

Will put the letter in a freezer bag to avoid further contamination, and then Alana took it to her office and locked it in the drawer where she kept her patient files, a drawer not even Will could access. “Let's get out of here,” she said to Will when she returned to the kitchen. “Let's go to the dog park.” Will didn't argue – Alana knew he knew why she was upset, and why she wanted to leave the house. 

Jack wasn't able to return her call until later that evening: he had been at a crime scene most of the day. He told Alana that he would send Beverly over in the morning to pick up the letter. “Dr. Lecter's lawyers won't be very happy with him,” he said. 

“I don't give a shit about his lawyers, Jack,” she said. “I don't want him writing to me any more, or to Will. We have nothing to say to him.” 

Alana slept uneasily that night: she had a nightmare that Hannibal, now in old Will's cell at Baltimore State Hospital, attacked her like a wild animal when she came for a visit. She woke up weeping and Will held her close to him, rubbing the small of her back to try to soothe her. He had hardly slept, either. 

They were both restless, and after a failed attempt at sex, they got into her car and Will drove into D.C. until he found the same diner he had taken Alana to on her birthday. Since it was summer and most of the students were away from campus, the diner was quiet; they sat next to each other in a booth and ordered large slices of cheesecake. 

“What did you do on nights like this, before you started living with me?” Alana asked Will. 

“I'd go for walks sometimes,” he said. “Read.” He chuckled softly. “Drink whiskey.” She smiled. “The nights at Chilton's were the worst, though,” he said. “Sometimes they felt like years. Sometimes I never thought it would be day ever again. That's when I thought I wouldn't make it.” He sighed. “I would spend hours thinking about what happened and trying to figure out what I could do or say to make someone believe me. Towards the end, they just became thoughts about regret, and then suicide.” 

Alana grasped his hand and brought it to her lips. He kissed the crown of her head. “How do you think Hannibal sleeps?” she asked softly. 

“Better than we do,” he said. “I doubt he has many sleepless nights.”

“I doubt he does, too,” she said. 

They drove home and finally fell into exhausted sleep, their arms around each other, just as the sun was coming up. Beverly ringing the doorbell woke them. “I'm sorry,” she said, as Alana invited her in. 

“It's fine,” Alana said, giving her a hug. “We had a bad night.” Beverly and Will hugged and then Will went into the kitchen to make her coffee. 

“Bad vibes, eh?” Beverly said.

Alana nodded. “I'm not a superstitious person, but there was something about having that letter here...Will was upset, too. We'll both be glad when it's gone.” 

“I'll get out of here soon, then,” Beverly said. 

Alana rubbed her arm. “No, stay for coffee at least,” she said. “I don't want to chase you out. This is...awkward.”

Beverly smiled. “It's okay.”

Alana took Beverly into her office and unlocked the drawer where she had stowed away Hannibal's letter. She handed it, still in its freezer bag, to Beverly, who handled it with gloves and put it into an evidence bag. “What will you do with it?” Alana asked.

“We'll have some of our linguists look at it and see if there's any hidden messages. Then we'll hand it over to his lawyers. You won't see it again.” She put the evidence bag into the pocket of her black messenger bag. “The same goes if he sends you another one. Call Jack and I'll come over and pick it up.” 

“Thank you for doing this,” Alana said. 

Beverly grinned. “All in a day's work at the BAU,” she said. 

They walked together into the kitchen where Will was in his pajamas, pouring Beverly a cup of coffee from Alana's coffee press. He had already set out two mugs of chamomile tea for himself and Alana. After Beverly was served, they stood around the kitchen island catching up. “You look great,” Beverly said to Will. 

Will lowered his head a little, but Alana smiled. “He did great in rehab,” she said. “They said he worked _exceptionally_ hard.” 

Will smiled sheepishly. “That's Will Graham,” Beverly said approvingly. “Always the exception.” She raised her mug. “Let me give you a formal congratulations on your retirement,” she said. 

“Thank you,” Will said quietly. 

“What are you planning on doing now?”

Will averted her eyes – Alana thought he was acting oddly shy. “I finished a new monograph,” he said. “I was going to see if the BSU would pick it up.”

Alana gasped. “What?!” she said. “Will, you never told me you were working on a book!” 

“I wrote a lot of it when I was in Baltimore,” he said, “and now that I've got my computer back, I was able to finish it.” He paused. “It's kind of a stupid idea, honestly. I just started writing to see where it would go.” He looked down, suddenly very interested in his tea, and then looked back up again. “And it took me to the end.”

Beverly grinned. “I'd love to read it.” 

“Me too,” Alana said. 

He chuckled. “You don't even know what it's about. My last one was on insect activity. Enthralling reading.” 

Beverly scoffed. “It was decent...for what it was about, anyway. What's this one about?”

“Pets,” Will said. “More accurately, the importance of paying attention to pets' behavior at crime scenes – whether they seem upset, whether they've been fed, if a pet is missing, that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “A lot of people forget to ask.” 

Alana clutched his arm affectionately. “I love it. I can't wait to read it.” 

He laughed shyly. “I used your login at Georgetown to do most of the research. I even set up a RefWorks bibliography. I kept expecting you to ask, but you never did.” 

She laughed. “I have to say I didn't notice. I was a bit distracted, you know – I was collating data from case studies, doing paperwork for tenure, keeping track of my publication schedule, and, oh yeah, worried about a sadistic cannibal serial killer on my trail.”

After both Beverly and Alana gave Will a few minor notes on his manuscript – and after they both assured him that it was actually a good idea, after all – he sent it in to his old supervisors at the BSU. Will wasn't sure if he had any credibility left with them, but a few weeks later, he received a call that the BSU was interested in adopting the monograph into the curriculum. Will said that it was unlikely he would receive much money from the book – he hadn't received much from his other books – but Alana was proud and excited for him all the same. 

While his mood slowly but steadily improved, her mood had picked up considerably after the incident with Hannibal's letter. She continued seeing Valerie every week, and felt comforted by her therapist's wise guidance. Valerie had urged her not to try to formally counsel Will, as she had in the past; she told Alana to let Will take the lead and talk when he wanted to talk. 

But he spoke of Hannibal very rarely. When Alana came home from her therapy sessions, he asked her how they went and comforted her if she was upset, but he didn't ask for details. Alana didn't push him – she knew that discussing Hannibal was still difficult for him. They would only have a few more months of peace before the preparations for Hannibal's trial, which was tentatively scheduled for the spring, and Alana knew Will wanted to spend them quietly, with her and the dogs. Soon enough, the prosecutors would come calling to start coaching Will for what would be an emotionally harrowing trial. 

The rest of June and most of July passed quietly. They never received another letter from Hannibal; it was likely that his outgoing mail was being closely monitored, probably directly by Chilton. But towards the end of July, just as Will and Alana were packing for their long-awaited week in Virginia Beach, he received another letter in the mail – the FBI had successfully petitioned the federal prosecutors' office to seal Will's criminal record. 

Alana stood next to Will in the kitchen while he read the letter. “I suppose this is your doing?” he asked her.

“You suppose correctly,” she said. 

He was quiet for a while. “Thank you,” he said. He kissed her fondly, just to the side of her mouth. 

She smiled. “If you ever want to work again, your records, at least, won't hold you back.” 

“They did this quickly,” he said.

“They're desperate, I think.” 

He leaned back a little from her, so that he could look her in the eye. “Did you threaten Jack with a lawsuit?” he asked her. 

“Not exactly,” she said truthfully. “But I'm not going to deny that I don't know your rights, and I let Jack know that I expected you to be taken care of.” 

“You spoke to your dad?”

Alana nodded. “And...someone else. A litigator. A friend of my father's.”

Will sighed and pulled away from her. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

“Because you would have said no. And if you had said no, you would have been left with a million dollars in debt, no health insurance, no pension, no settlement, and five murder charges on your criminal record.” 

Will sighed. 

“I'm not apologizing for talking to a lawyer,” Alana said. “The FBI owes you everything they gave you – they owe you more, actually. You lost your home and your career because they failed to thoroughly investigate your case. You spent more than a year in a institution for the criminally insane. You have to completely rebuild your life because _they_ fucked up.” Will had turned away from her – she could tell he was on the verge of tears. She grasped his hand. “And Jack is not upset,” she continued. “Sealing your record was his idea, actually. Otherwise, you'd have to petition the court to expunge the charges, and that can't be done quietly. It would all be public record.” 

He sighed. “Is it over?” he asked.

“It's over, on your side at least. You're free.” Alana hugged him, and to her relief, he hugged her back. “I just wanted to make things right,” she said, burying her head in his shoulder. “I still feel responsible for what happened to you.” 

“You're not,” he murmured against her ear. “I told you you're not.” 

“What I _am_ sorry for is that I hid it from you,” she said. “I didn't want to. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I was afraid of how you would react.” 

To her surprise, he chuckled. “How _I_ would react?” 

She pulled away from him a little so that she could look at his face. “Yeah,” she said. “I'm afraid I'm overstepping my bounds.” 

He stroked her cheek lovingly and then swallowed hard, tears filling his eyes. “Alana, no one has ever cared for me the way you do, not even my dad. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.” 

A surge of love for him rose in her chest, and she began to cry. She kissed Will, softly at first, and then deeply, running her hands through his hair and down his back. “I love you so much,” she said, laying her head against his chest. “I just want you to be happy.” 

“I _am_ happy,” he said, kissing the crown of her head. “I wasn't upset at you...more frustrated with myself, I guess. I don't have any fight left and I don't know why.” 

“I'll fight for you until it comes back,” she said. She kissed him again, deeply, his mouth warm and soft and beautifully familiar against hers, like home. 

After they pulled apart, she cradled his cheek in her hand and stroked his face. “That's it,” she said. “You know all of my secrets. I'm not hiding anything from you any more.” 

He kissed her, sweetly and deeply in the way that only he could kiss her – in the way that stirred the fire in her belly like no man she'd ever met before. She pulled him toward her and she wrapped her arms around his neck, craving more. “I love you,” he murmured against her, his breath warm on her cheek. 

“I love you,” she murmured back, kissing him again, and at that moment she remembered his words to her, shouted out from his cage in hell. “You are the stars and the sea and everything good,” she whispered. “I love you. I love you.”


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

That Friday, Will and Alana packed two suitcases into her car and drove to Virginia Beach. Since Will had been unable to find a hotel willing to take seven dogs at peak season, Alana's parents had agreed to dogsit for them. 

Alana and Will took their time driving south and reached their hotel in the early evening. Will had told the concierge that he and Alana were on their honeymoon, and he had managed to book a beautiful room with a large bathtub and a balcony facing the beach. They were sitting on the balcony looking at the water when room service arrived with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. _Happily Ever After_ was written in chocolate syrup on the platter. “I can't decide if you're a terrible or wonderful person,” Alana said to Will, biting into a strawberry. 

“I suppose I'm both, Mrs. Graham,” he said, chuckling. 

“That's Dr. Alana Bloom Graham to you, mister,” she said, putting her bare feet into his lap. “Now give me a massage. And then, after we eat, I want you to fuck me like we really are on our honeymoon. Okay?” 

“Yes, doctor,” he said, laughing, then leaned over and kissed her, his mouth tasting of champagne and strawberries. 

Alana would later remember their week together in Virginia Beach as one of the happiest times of her life – it did feel like a honeymoon. At first, Will was self-conscious about his scar and didn't want to remove his t-shirt, but she talked him into it and they swam together in the blue Atlantic, kissing in the surf like smitten teenagers. She felt the rhythm of the waves in her body for hours afterward. 

They gorged on food and sex and the ocean. They made love on the bed with the balcony doors open, letting the sea breeze cool their sweaty skin. They went to a cheesy gift shop along the boardwalk and took pictures of each other with bizarre souvenirs – fetal sharks preserved in blue liquid, tacky seashell art, hats in the shape of saltwater fish, hermit crabs with painted shells that made Alana sad to look at as they crawled over each other in their crowded pen. They rented bicycles to ride on the boardwalk and laughed at each other's shakiness: neither of them had ridden a bike in years. At Alana's insistence, Will let her take a picture of him with the statue of the Norwegian Lady: _I stand here to wish all men of the sea safe return home,_ it said on her pedestal, and the words stirred something in Alana's heart. After four days on the boardwalk, they finally caved and visited the tourist traps – they kissed at the top of the Cape Henry lighthouse and spent a happy day at the aquarium, where sea turtles flitted around them in clear tanks. Alana's skin browned in spite of the sunscreen and wide-brimmed hat she wore, and Will got a red patch of sunburn across his nose and cheeks. When he smiled, he looked like a boy again.

Once their week of bliss was over, they came home and then fell asleep naked together in their bed. Alana woke late in the night; in his sleep, Will had turned his back to her, and as she watched him breathe she noticed a new constellation of freckles on his back. Eventually she nestled her face against his neck and wrapped an arm across his scarred stomach, laying a kiss on his shoulder before she drifted off to sleep again. 

 

During her next session with Valerie, Alana told her all about their trip. “It sounds like you had a wonderful time,” Valerie said, smiling.

“I did,” Alana said. “I can't remember the last time I was so happy.” 

“And Will has seemed happier lately?”

“Yes.” She paused for a moment. “It occurred to me on the trip that I've never known what Will is like when he's happy. I'm not sure if _he_ really knows.” 

“He seems to have become more sociable.” 

“Definitely. It was crowded _everywhere,_ and the crowds didn't seem to faze him at all. At this time last year, he probably would have had a panic attack.”

“What does it feel like to you, to see him change?” 

“I'm pleased. I feel good. We're both introverts, so I don't mind a lot of time alone with him, but before we were together, he was a very isolated man. He was lonely. He had trouble admitting it for a while.”

Valerie smiled. “An important aspect of love is to accept people for who they are and love them anyway. But that doesn't mean that, because we love them as they are, that we shouldn't encourage them to be better – to become their best selves.” 

Alana nodded. 

“Do you think you're a better person from being with Will?” Valerie asked. 

“Yes. I love who I am when I'm with him.” 

“And would Will say he is better from being with you?” 

“I think he would,” she said. “He doesn't seem at all resentful of how he's changed. I do try to give him space when I sense that he needs it, but he rarely seems to want it any more.” 

“He's looking to you for comfort, rather than himself?”

“Yes,” Alana said, and then she paused. “We comfort each other.” 

Valerie smiled. “This is all good, Alana. I'm very glad to hear that you both are feeling better.” She paused. “Has he wanted to talk any more about his own trauma?”

“Not really,” Alana said. “I think he's avoiding it.” She sighed. “I'm avoiding it, too. Preparation for Hannibal's trial will begin soon.”

“And this will bring up uncomfortable feelings for both of you,” Valerie said. 

Alana sighed. “I just want to move on. I don't want to think about him any more. But I know that's not possible.”

“It's more than not possible, Alana – this trial will put you and Will under public scrutiny again. There will be press attention. Many of the things you thought you escaped will return.” 

“I know,” Alana whispered.

“I think you should continue to treasure the time you have together, when things are quiet,” Valerie said. “All too soon, that time will end, and you're both going to need to be stronger than ever.” 

 

A few days later, Alana received a phone call from her department chair – they wanted her to attend a private meeting the next week, before the department members met to plan the semester. Alana knew that she would be the subject of the meeting, although her chair never said so. 

The department's decision on her tenure wasn't due for another few weeks. She had done her best, in spite of the immense pressure from Will's arrest and incarceration, his release, and their investigation of Hannibal, to maintain her status at her job, but she always knew that there was a good possibility it wouldn't be enough. The spring semester had been especially rough for her, since she spent so much of her free time in the hospital and then at home with Will; she had cut her office hours as much as possible and hadn't taken on extra projects. While everyone in the department knew what had happened and were understanding of her situation, it still was a very bad time for her to have a personal crisis. 

Alana enjoyed her work at Georgetown and considered herself fortunate that she was able to stay so close to her family and friends. She loved her home. She didn't want to go back out on the job market and look for another teaching position. But if she wasn't granted tenure, it was likely that Georgetown would let her go and hire someone else, and unless she was able to find a teaching position at a school nearby, she and Will would likely have to move. 

She decided to keep her concerns from him. _It's a good possibility I'm overreacting over nothing,_ she thought. But she couldn't hide the fact that she was having trouble sleeping for most of the week unless she worked herself into total exhaustion. 

Finally, the day of the meeting arrived. Will had wanted to go to Georgetown with her, but she told him to stay home. Before she left, he hugged her unusually tightly and for a longer time than normal, and then he stroked her hair and kissed her tenderly. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be fine. It's just a meeting.” 

“Call me when you're done, okay?” he said.

“Of course,” she replied, picking up her purse and giving him another quick kiss goodbye.

Two hours later, she was sitting in her department chair's office with two of her senior colleagues. Her department chair had put her out of her misery quickly – he said that although they loved her research and that her teaching record was excellent, they regretted they were unable to offer her tenure. 

Alana would have been able to accept the judgment for what it was, until her department chair said something else. “Alana, you know we'd love to keep you on, but we're receiving a lot of pressure from the Board of Trustees and the university administrators about you.”

This gave her pause, and then she knew why. “It's because of Hannibal Lecter, isn't it?” 

Her colleagues were silent. She took that as an affirmative. 

She sat silent, herself, for what seemed like a long while, trying to bottle up her rage and disappointment. Finally, one of her colleagues, Miranda, spoke. “Dr. Lecter has disgraced the medical community,” Miranda said sadly. “While he was, once, a respected psychiatrist, he isn't any longer. His practices were beyond unorthodox – they were actually illegal, as well as immoral – and his research has been thoroughly discredited. All of his students will inevitably fall into disfavor as well. Your recommendation letter from him said you were one of his most gifted students. Truthfully, the university's administration is uncomfortable recommending a professor for tenure who is so heavily associated with Dr. Lecter.” Miranda sighed. “I'm so sorry, Alana. You don't deserve any of this. But our hands are tied.” 

They offered Alana a position as instructor for one year, until she could find a job elsewhere. But Alana knew there would be no teaching position for her, anywhere, especially after Hannibal's trial. 

She held in her tears until she had locked herself in her car. She cried for a long while, in great gasping sobs, and then once she had calmed herself, she called Will. “They won't grant me tenure because of _him,_ ” she said, breaking out into sobs again, the rage returning. “They don't want the bad press. They don't want parents calling when they find out their children are taking classes from someone who had a goddamned _cannibal_ as a mentor.” 

Will was silent on the other end of the phone. 

She sighed, choking down her anger. “They agreed to keep me on for a year as an instructor. It's a severe demotion – I'll lose more than fifteen grand in my salary.” 

“What are you going to do?” Will asked softly. 

“I'll find something else. I have a good reputation in my field.”

He sighed. “Alana --”

“I know,” she said. “I know. It's over.” She laughed humorlessly. “You know, I actually thought that he wouldn't completely fucking destroy my life. I don't know why I thought that.” 

“I don't want you to worry,” Will said. “We have some money now. It'll pay the mortgage and feed us. Let me take care of you for a while.” 

Alana broke into sobs again. “No,” she moaned. “ _No._ That's your money, Will...you earned every penny of it. It's not right.”

“It's okay. I told you that it was yours.” He paused. “You took care of me when I lost everything. You've always cared about me more than I cared about myself. I don't know where I'd be without you.” 

Alana sobbed, laying her head against the steering wheel. “I want to be home with you,” she whispered. “I just want to come home.” 

“Then come home. You're okay to drive?” 

“Yeah,” she said. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself again. “I love you,” she said. 

“I love _you,_ ” he said. “Drive safe. I'll see you soon.” 

Alana drove home, occasionally blinded by tears. When she pulled up in the driveway, Will came out to meet her, the dogs trailing him. She clung to him as he took her inside. 

She sat down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes while Will went into the kitchen to get her a cold beer. Her head ached from stress and from her crying. “I'm going to get really drunk,” she said to Will. 

“You do that,” he said softly. 

She had downed half her beer before she spoke again. “I am astounded by the depth of my hate for him,” she said. “I keep thinking that I need to be done hating, that I need to work on forgiveness, and then something else happens.” She drank again, finishing the bottle. “I can't forgive him. _I can't._ ” 

“I can't, either,” Will said. “I do feel pity. But forgiveness? Unlikely.” 

Alana curled into him and he put an arm around her. She spent the rest of the evening on the sofa, drinking, only eating when Will laid a sandwich on a plate in front of her. But in the morning, she found herself feeling lighter, more at peace. Will had lost everything and she had helped him through the pain, helped him pick up the pieces and reassemble his life. She had faith that he would do the same for her.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Alana's friends learned the news about her job quickly. Within the week, Alana's good friend Jenny Wong and her wife, Nicole, had invited Alana and Will to a dinner party at their home in Annapolis. Alana had tried to refuse the invitation, saying that she wouldn't be good company, but Jenny had insisted. “Alana, come,” Jenny said gently. “Bring Will. Bring wine, or beer, or whatever you want. Nicole and I want to see you, and you need this.” 

And so, Alana agreed. Both Jenny and Nicole greeted Alana warmly when she and Will arrived. After they had all gone into the kitchen to have drinks, Nicole gestured to the oven. “Eggplant lasagna,” she said proudly. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Alana said playfully. “It's been years since I had that.” 

“She makes it all the time for me,” Jenny said, grinning, while she poured each of them a glass of red wine. 

“You shut up, too,” Alana told her, “with your rubbing it in.” Jenny laughed. 

“It smells delicious,” Will said. 

“It's amazing,” Alana said. “You're going to have to roll me out of here tonight. Just warning you.” 

“Mmm, I don't mind,” Will murmured, kissing the crown of her head. 

Alana was almost finished with her first glass of wine when Nicole and Will left the kitchen – Nicole had a large record collection she'd inherited from her father that she had promised to show Will last time they had seen each other. Alana heard their footsteps on the wood floor and their talking became a murmur as they went into the den. 

Jenny leaned on the counter next to Alana. “How is he?” she asked, nodding her head towards the den and Will.

“He's doing well, actually. Much better.” She smiled. “He's even been talking about going back to work – not at the FBI, though,” she added quickly. “But there have been inquiries about consultant work.” 

“What about you?” 

Alana sighed and downed the last of her wine. “I have no idea,” she said. “I don't even know what classes they're going to offer me yet, so I haven't planned anything.”

Jenny nodded. “Listen,” she said. “There was a reason I wanted you to come here tonight. I wanted to offer you a job, with me.” 

Alana immediately started shaking her head, but Jenny placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hear me out,” she said. “I know you loved teaching, but private practice is a good place to be. And you won't have to shoulder much in start-up costs since my practice is already established. We can expand together. You can build up a patient base without putting everything you have on the line.” 

“Jen, I don't know. It's a very generous offer, really --”

“But what?”

Alana sighed. “I can't impose on you.”

“It's not an imposition, Lana,” Jenny insisted. “You were my best friend at Johns Hopkins – don't tell Brian that. I'm pretty sure the only reason why I didn't drop out or go crazy myself is because of you. I love you, you know that. You're like my sister. Let me help you out, okay?” She smiled. “And besides, it's a good thing for me, too. With two of us, we can afford a bigger and nicer office, and we'll be able to get a full-time assistant eventually.” 

Alana's eyes filled with tears and she had to turn away. “You've always been so proud,” she heard Jenny say. “You never wanted any help with anything. You wanted to do it all yourself.” 

Alana began to cry. Jenny hugged her and rubbed her back. “I'm so sorry, babe,” she said. 

After a few minutes – _Rhapsody in Blue_ was playing from the den – Alana wiped her eyes. “Will and I have talked a few times about starting over again, someplace far away, but...when it comes down to it, I don't want to go. I don't want to leave.” 

Jenny nodded solemnly. 

“Will's giving me money – I hate myself from taking it from him – but it will only buy us a year, maybe a year and a half if we're lucky. I might have to think about selling my house.” Alana's eyes filled with tears again. “I never realized how much I took it for granted that I would get tenure and always be at Georgetown. Everyone told me not to worry about it. But that was before Hannibal.” 

“Babe, the biggest _fuck you_ to that shithead is for you to be successful without him – _in spite of_ him.” 

Alana laughed humorlessly. “I can't believe I was ever in love with him. I was so fucking stupid.” 

Jenny took Alana's wineglass and refilled it, then handed it back to her. “Does Will know you were in love with him?” she asked. 

“I've never said it to him outright. But there's not much, emotionally, that I can hide from Will. He probably suspects it.” 

Jenny stood next to Alana again, sipping more wine from her own glass. “There's another reason why I'm offering you a job, too,” she said. “But it's totally selfish.”

“Selfish is okay with me,” Alana said. “What is it?” 

“Nicole and I want to have a baby. We were hesitant about it for a while, but now that we're legally married...well, we don't have to worry as much as we used to.” 

Alana nodded. 

“It's going to be soon,” Jenny continued. “Brian already agreed to be our donor.”

“Nicole's going to carry the baby?”

“Yeah,” Jenny said. “The doctors think it's best. She'll get pregnant more easily and have a better chance at a healthier pregnancy. I'd probably need fertility treatments.” 

Alana smiled and grasped Jenny's hand. “I'm happy for you. I really am.” 

Jenny smiled. “Just think it over, Lana, okay? It's a chance at stability. You make your own hours. You don't have to worry about committees or politics or how many papers you published last year. You come home at the end of the day and that's it.”

Alana nodded. “What about you and Will?” Jenny asked. “I know you said you can't get married yet, but what about other things?” 

Alana sighed. “I don't know.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I've never told anyone this...not even Will,” she said, lowering her voice. Jenny leaned in closer. 

“The first time Will and I had sex, I wasn't on birth control,” Alana said. “We didn't use a condom because things just sort of...happened. I went the next morning to get Plan B, just in case, but I think about that decision a lot. Sometimes I wish I'd decided differently.” 

Jenny nodded knowingly. 

“We all try to be rational about this – and I know, realistically, that this isn't the right time for a baby for us – but there might never _be_ a right time, you know? There's always another reason to put it off: we need more money, work isn't going well, some other bullshit excuse. But the truth is, neither one of us are getting any younger. Will almost died. It's changed my perspective – and his, I think.” 

Just then, Nicole walked back into the kitchen, with Will trailing behind her carrying their empty wineglasses. Alana watched a silent exchange between Jenny and Nicole – they had been together so long that they could communicate with looks alone. Nicole was making sure Jenny had had enough time to speak to Alana: she noticed the subtle nod Jenny gave her wife. “You ready for dinner?” Nicole asked, glancing first at Alana, and then Will. 

“Ugh, yes, _please_ ,” Alana said, smiling at her. 

 

Alana didn't tell Will about Jenny's offer until they were driving home. “Jenny offered me a spot in her practice,” she said. “I'll be able to set my own schedule, for the most part. I'll be independent.”

“You won't have to worry about being fired,” Will said, glancing at her from the driver's seat. 

“Only by my patients.”

Will smiled at her warmly. “They wouldn't fire you.” 

“Money will be tight,” she said. “It might take me a while to build up a patient base and I won't have a salary to fall back on.” 

“We have my pension,” he said. “What kind of work would you be doing?”

“Individual and family counseling. Trauma specialty. No more murders. No more forensics.” She glanced down at her hands. 

“Would you be okay without that kind of work?” Will asked.

“I think so,” she said, looking at Will again. “Maybe I'm burned out, but I want something normal. I want to feel like I'm really helping people, not just studying them.” 

Will took one of his hands off the steering wheel and, grasping one of hers, brought it to his lips. “So when do you start?” he asked. 

“I'll call Jenny tomorrow and let her know. I don't think I'll return to Georgetown in the fall, so...now, I guess.” 

It was only after they were home, in their pajamas and in bed together, that Alana felt unsure about her decision. “Will?” she said into the darkness, then turned over to face him. 

“Hmm?” he replied. 

“You think this is a good idea?” she asked softly. “Me giving up teaching altogether? It's risky. I could get another teaching job, you know.”

He reached for her hand in the darkness. “It would probably be at a school in the middle of nowhere, far away from your friends and family,” he said. “And you would languish and all your talent would be wasted.” She felt his fingers squeeze hers. “You would be unhappy, Alana,” he said. 

“You think I would be happy in private practice?” 

“Happier than if we picked up and moved to Alaska,” he said. She giggled. “Now, me, I'd be okay,” he said. “But not you.”

“I could make it in Alaska,” she insisted. 

“Neiman's does do online sales,” he said, chuckling. 

“You shut _up_ ,” Alana said, laughing. “I'm going to show you.”

“Show me here, in Virginia,” he said, serious again. “I know you don't want to move to Alaska and spend your days fly-fishing and moose hunting. Your family is here. So are your friends. This is your home.” 

She shifted her body into his, curling up against him and holding him close. She felt him place a kiss on her head, and felt a rush of gratitude for his tenderness, his understanding of her needs. “I'm scared,” she whispered against him.

“You're taking a risk,” Will said, stroking her hair. “And you have a lot to lose. But you'd have a lot to lose anyway, if you took a job somewhere you'd never been, where you didn't know anyone.” 

“You did it,” Alana said. “You quit your job, moved up here.”

“It's easy to do when you don't have any connection to anyone,” Will said. “My father was the only person I loved in the world, and he was already dead. I thought what lay ahead had to be better than what I left behind.” He went silent, still stroking her hair, and then spoke again. “It's different for you.”

“Is it different for you, too, now?” she asked. She had always known Will to be honest to a fault, but now, briefly, she wondered if he would lie. 

“Yes,” he said, and kissed her gently and sweetly on the mouth. She moaned just a little with pleasure. “It's different for me now. I swear.” 

She felt confident he wasn't lying.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

That Monday, Alana faxed her resignation letter to Georgetown, and by the end of August, she and Jenny were moving into a larger office in the same building where Jenny practiced just outside of D.C. Alana, Will, Jenny, Nicole, and their friends Brian and Manuel spent five days moving furniture and painting and decorating the new office, and each evening they settled in on the floor with takeout and beer. Alana felt a sense of renewed energy: her disappointment from the loss of her job at Georgetown evaporated, replaced by hope and the thrill of being independent. 

She used Jenny's connections, as well as her own, at Georgetown and at the George Washington University to set up referrals, and, by midterms in October, her practice was beginning to fill with new patients, most of them young women in need of more help than the overwhelmed university counseling centers could provide. Though she was often reminded of Abigail with grief and regret, working with other young people in need gave her a sense of fulfillment that she hadn't felt in a long time. Though her new work lacked the excitement of working with the FBI and the criminal mind, she felt as if she was truly helping her patients rather than just studying them, and often felt proud at their small accomplishments. 

Will had noticed her change in mood with pleasure – she wasn't under as much pressure as she had been at Georgetown, and she didn't have to bring work home. She laughed more, and she and Will often spent her evenings off having beers in front of the firepit or watching movies on the sofa. Will was slowly finding his own way, too: he had, very quietly, consulted on a few cases for the BAU with Jack, and they had renewed their old friendship. 

The only dark spot in Alana's life was their finances: though Alana's practice was growing more quickly than she had anticipated, it would take her a while to build a solid and consistent patient base, and until then, she and Will had to be careful with money. This was harder on Alana than it was on Will: he was accustomed to a simple and frugal life, but Alana had never had to worry much about money. 

She was embarrassed when Will gave her a pair of diamond and ruby earrings for her birthday in September, and begged him to take them back. He refused. “It took me two weeks to pick them out,” he said with a chuckle. “I kept thinking I would find something better.” 

In spite of herself, she smiled. “They're exquisite, Will,” she said. “I love them.” 

“It was a big milestone for me,” he said. “I've never bought a piece of jewelry before.” 

She kissed him on the cheek. “You did a good job.” 

“You'll wear them to dinner?” he asked, running a hand fondly through her hair. 

“Of course,” she said. 

Upstairs, Alana took out a patterned dress with red accents, tying her hair up and then saving the earrings for last. She put them on and examined her reflection in the mirror. They really were magnificent. She didn't even want to think of how much he'd spent on them. 

While she was staring at her reflection, Will came in, dressed in his nicest shirt and slacks. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her fondly on the neck, just below her hairline. “How could I take them back now when I've seen how beautiful you look with them on?” he asked.   
“Shut up, Prince Charming,” she said playfully, pinching his side. He chucked in her ear. She quieted. “You didn't have to do this,” she said softly.

“I wanted to,” he said. “I wish I could spoil you more.” 

“I don't need to be spoiled,” she said. “At least with things, anyway.” 

They were silent together for a few moments. The feeling of Will's warm hands caressing her sent a shiver of desire up her spine. “We'll be okay, Alana,” he said. “I know you're worried, but we'll be okay.” 

In October, Alana came home from work to see Will's overnight bag, packed, in the foyer. He was on his laptop at the dining room table. “Baby?” she said as she walked toward him. “What's going on? Why is your bag packed?”

He turned his head away from the laptop screen to look at her. “A couple was murdered down in Charleston almost two days ago,” he said. “It's a similar MO to another unsolved crime I profiled a while back, before...everything.” At this, he ran a hand through his hair – an unconscious nervous reaction. He continued, “Jack asked me to go to their house and see if there's anything I can pull from the crime scene – make sure it's the same guy, refine my original profile.” He nodded at the laptop. “I'm rereading the old profile now. It's been a while.” 

“Okay,” she said, feeling a strange swooping in her stomach that she couldn't quite identify. “You sure you're up to going?”

“Yeah.” He glanced, briefly, at his feet, then raised his eyes again. “I want to go. It's my profile.” His mouth quirked into a slight smile. “Can't have anyone else mucking it up.” 

Alana nodded. “Of course. I understand.” 

“I have a flight out of Dulles in the morning. I'll leave my car there, spend the night in Charleston, be back Thursday morning.” 

“Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the airport?” she asked. 

He smiled. “I'm fine. Sleep in.” 

In all the excitement, Will had forgotten to make dinner; he apologized, but Alana merely kissed the crown of his head and told him to keep working. She was cooking a small pot of spaghetti when she finally recognized the strange sensation she'd felt in her stomach – she was happy for Will, but also nervous, too. He hadn't been out in the field in years, and she was worried that it would trigger old feelings for him. 

It was still dark early the next morning when she heard Will get out of bed and, quietly, shower and dress. She drifted off to sleep again, waking when he kissed her tousled hair. “I'm going. I love you,” he said softly. 

“I love you, too,” she murmured back. “Be safe.” 

“I will.” He was walking away when Alana called his name, and he turned back to her. “I'm really proud of you,” she said, extending her arm toward him. “But don't stress yourself, okay?” 

He grasped her hand. “I won't,” he said, then squeezed her hand and placed it back on the comforter. “Go back to sleep. I'll text you when I get there and then I'll call you tonight.” 

“Please call me,” she said. “Don't forget. Don't get wrapped up.” 

She saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled in the dim light. “I'll call. Go back to sleep.” 

She did, waking to the sound of her alarm and not remembering he was gone until she saw the side of his bed, empty. 

Alana received his text after her first session, letting her know that he was in Charleston and on his way to the crime scene. That evening, she was curled up on the sofa, Chinese takeout in front of her and the dogs laying contentedly around her, when her phone rang. A smiling picture of Will was on her caller ID. 

“Hey,” she said. 

“Hey,” he said back. He sounded reasonably cheerful. “How was work?”

“Good. Normal. How are things going over there?”

He was silent for a few moments. “They're going okay. I spent a good part of the day at the house. Now I'm at the hotel with the case file.” 

“Do you want to talk?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said back. “I do.” He sighed. “I wish you were here, but at the same time, I'm glad you're not here.”

“What do you mean?” 

“This guy is a rapist and a torturer. I know we've seen our fair share of sick fucks, but...I don't know. I felt less disconnected than I used to. I had to work to choke down my anger. I really didn't want to get into his head.” 

“That's understandable. You've been through a lot and you've been out of the field for a while.” 

“It was hard getting into the trance, and when I was done I was trembling all over. I had to sit outside for a while to calm myself down.” 

“Oh, honey,” Alana sighed. “But you got through it. You're okay.”

“I'm okay.” He was silent for a few moments, then he took a long, deep breath. “I've never told anyone this. I'm ashamed of it.”

“Will, it's okay. You can tell me anything, you know that.” 

“When I was in trance, I would often feel this rush, the same rush the killer felt. All of his feelings of power, of control, of domination...I'd feel sick afterward.” 

“Those aren't _your_ feelings,” Alana said. “They're feelings that you channel.”

“I know that, rationally,” he said. “But I didn't _feel_ it, you know? It took me a long time and a lot of practice to control those feelings...I don't think I ever really did.” He paused. “I thought about you a lot today. It was just me here, no one to bounce off of...it was lonely.” He sighed. “I thought I needed to be perfectly alone to work and I would be pissed if anyone interrupted me, but it's different this time. I missed you...I missed Jack and Beverly, and even Jimmy and Price.” 

Alana was surprised at his honesty – while Will had changed profoundly over the years they had been together, breaking his old habits of secrecy and internalization had been difficult. “I'm really glad you told me this,” she said. “And I do miss working with you. I love my new job, but there's a part of me that will always be attracted to what we used to do.” She smiled. “So bounce off me. What did you find?”

“This guy has committed more than just two murders. I've asked Jack to inquire about other murders with the same MO.” 

“Do you need help with the profile?” Unconsciously, she sat up straighter; a surge of adrenaline ran through her body. 

“I've got most of it. Now that there's a pattern, I can draw out more information.” 

“Can you put on the camera so that I can see?” she asked. 

Will chuckled. “That's my girl. Eager to see pictures of a double murder.” 

“I never said I was an angel,” Alana said. “Now put on your camera so that we can solve a crime.” She waited a moment while Will put her on speaker and the camera on her phone turned on. Will waved at her, then turned the phone down so it was facing the bedspread, where the file and crime scene photos were spread out. 

They were brutal – Will explained that, like the previous murder, the husband had been executed quickly, with a single gunshot wound to the head. The wife in this case had been shot in the stomach: enough to incapacitate her, but not kill her right away. “He wanted her alive while he did what he did to her,” Will said quietly. 

“The women are the targets,” Alana said. 

“Right in one,” Will replied. “He chooses the women. They're special. The husbands are bystanders.” 

“How does he choose the women?” she asked.

“That's the mystery,” Will said. “No reports of stalkers or strangers in the neighborhood. These are well-to-do people with large houses and lots of eyes on them.” 

“So whoever this guy is, he can pass easily in a wealthy neighborhood.”

“Yes,” Will said, turning the phone back towards himself. “White male, probably in his thirties, and drives a relatively nice car. I'm guessing a minivan. He has to be able to park it for long periods without anyone noticing.” 

“How long does he stay with the victims?”

“All night. This kind of work isn't fast. And there's something else: this guy has a thing with the full moon. When I was walking through the house and property this afternoon, I found two bloody footprints in the grass. The police had missed them. It's a miracle they didn't wash away.” 

“What do you think it means?” Alana asked.

“Both nights he's killed, there's been a full moon. I don't think it's a coincidence.” Will leaned back against his pillow. “He brutalized this woman, and then walked outside, naked, to commune with the full moon.” 

“There's a spiritual component to the murders,” Alana said. “He's serving something...some sort of higher power. These victims – the women – are sacrifices.” She gasped. “I remember this case, Will. This was the biter, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Will said. “Bites in this case, too, all over the woman.” 

“No DNA?”

“No matches. Our guy doesn't have a record.” 

“Damn,” she said. 

Will smiled wryly. “If it was that easy, they wouldn't have called.” 

“But he _has_ to bite,” Alana said. “Even though he likely knows the risks, he has to do it. It's a compulsion. It's part of the ritual he's developing.” 

“So we're in agreement that these are ritualistic killings?”

“Yes,” she said. As she and Will had been talking, she had felt the rush – the thrill that came with understanding. As horrible as capturing Hannibal had been, there had been times, on the trail, when she had felt that same rush, when she couldn't suppress her feelings. _I am a profiler_ , Alana thought. _And I will always be one, just as Will will always be. The work always calls us back._

“Alana?” she heard Will ask. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, baby,” she said. “I feel...good.” 

“The thrill of the chase,” Will said quietly. “But this guy's a big fish.” 

“You'll get him,” Alana said. “You're a good fisherman. Probably the best.”


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Alana and Will talked until early in the morning. He was scheduled to be back in Virginia by the time she got home from work the next day. But that morning, on her way to work, Alana received a text from Will. _Freddie is in Charleston and wants to meet_ , he wrote. 

Freddie Lounds had been roaming the country since Hannibal's arrest – for years, Tattle Crime's bread and butter had been the Chesapeake Ripper, and now that the case was stagnant, she'd had to shift her focus. She had followed various minor killers and criminals around for most of the year, but she had obviously heard that Will was profiling the killer in Charleston and knew that this was a more significant crime and therefore worthy of her attention. 

Will wrote her another text message stating that he was planning on catching a later flight and would be home in the evening. Alana texted back, _OK, love you_ , and went to work. Her call, at lunchtime, went to his voicemail, but he sent her a text an hour later: _No flights today. I'm renting a car. The drive is 8 hours._

_You sure you want to do that?_ she texted back. 

_Yeah_ , he answered. _I want to get out of here._

That evening, Alana cooked skirt steak, rice, and tortillas for dinner, then sat down in front of the TV with the dogs and a beer to wait for him. She didn't realize she had fallen asleep until she heard his car in the driveway and the dogs rose to greet him. She checked her watch – it was after two in the morning. 

“I'm sorry I'm so late,” he said, kissing her. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking his bag and yawning. “How was your drive?” She thought he looked pale and tired. 

“The drive was fine,” he said. “Freddie, on the other hand...” He took off his glasses and sighed. “I need a beer.” 

“I'll get you one. You look worn out.” She went into the kitchen, hearing Will talking to the dogs while they whined happily. She reached into the fridge and grabbed a beer, the plate of steak and rice, and the jar of salsa. “Do you want something to eat?” she called to him. “I'll heat up the food.” 

He came into the kitchen and put his arms around her waist. “You don't have to do that,” he said, kissing her shoulder. 

“It's fine,” she said, turning her head towards him with a short, affectionate nuzzle. She popped off the cap on the beer and handed it to him. 

“Alana, it's two o'clock in the morning. You have to work tomorrow,” he said.

She scoffed. “I told you, it's fine. I was waiting for you anyway.” She put the steak and rice in a pan to heat. “And I know you didn't eat anything along the way, because you never do.” 

He wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her temple. “You'll make a good fishwife yet,” he said. 

“Mmm, a real fishwife would have beaten you with her broom for coming home so late and waking her up.” 

She heard Will chuckle against her. “But you did have the beer ready,” he said. “That's a good first step.”

Alana turned to face him. “Go get ready for bed,” she said, rubbing his back fondly. “This will be ready in a few minutes.” 

He left the kitchen, talking to the dogs again. “Ike, stay downstairs with Alana,” she heard him say. She laughed. “He's not going to listen,” she called, and then heard the telltale uneven thumps of Will's oldest dog jumping up the staircase. 

She had put Will's food on a plate and was pulling tortillas out of the bag when she heard his footsteps coming downstairs. He walked back into the kitchen, wearing his pajamas and socks, and picked up his beer from where he had left it on the counter. “Thank you,” he said, a note of shame in his voice, when he saw that Alana had plated his food. 

“You're welcome,” she said. “There's cotija cheese in the fridge. Fix your food and then tell me what happened with Freddie.” 

She grabbed another beer for herself and then settled in on the couch, pushing Charlie and Missy to the side when she saw they had settled into her pillow and blanket. Missy burrowed into her lap and Alana scratched her head. 

Will came in a few minutes later, balancing his plate and beer. He sat down next to her and she watched him eat with more zeal than she had seen in a very long time. He was obviously famished. “Did you have anything to eat today, at all?” she asked.

“Just coffee,” he said, after a swallow. 

“That's not good. You know that.”

He swallowed another bite. “This food is good, though. Better than a drive-thru.” 

She rubbed his shoulder and watched TV absently until he finished eating. When he was finished, he leaned back, sighed tiredly, and took a few sips of his beer. “Freddie and I are no longer friends,” he said. “Not that we ever were, really.”

“What happened?” 

“She told me that she set Nick Boyle up.” 

“What?” Alana said, sitting up straighter. 

“She told me the whole story. She met with Nick Boyle and told him that Abigail participated in his sister's murder. That's why he showed up at the Hobbs's house – he knew Abigail was coming back to Minnesota. He wanted to confront her.”

“I remember. Freddie was there the night Nick Boyle broke in to the house.”

“He didn't break in. Freddie did. She picked the lock on the back door while we were at the cabin. She let him in and then met us outside to give him enough time to hide.” 

“Why did she tell you this?” Alana asked. 

Will laughed humorlessly. “She said she felt bad.” 

“She felt _bad_?”

“Those were her words,” he said noncommittally. 

“Bad that Nick Boyle died, or bad that Abigail killed him?”

“Bad that Abigail killed him. I didn't get a sense that she cared very much about Nick Boyle. He was a means to an end.” 

Alana shook her head. “I don't understand this. What was she thinking? Did she expect Abigail to kill Nick Boyle? Did she think that would prove something, somehow?” 

“I don't know,” Will said. “I don't think Freddie even knew. She was setting this up to see how it played out.” 

Alana felt a surge of disgust rise in her chest. “What did you say to all this?” she asked Will. 

He sighed. “We had an argument. It started in the coffee shop, but we ended up taking it outside, to the parking lot.” He took another sip of his beer; he looked disturbed. “Honestly, Alana...I haven't been that angry in a long time. I wish she hadn't told me. I wish she had never brought it up.” 

“She wanted you to help her clear her conscience.” 

He nodded. “I didn't give her the satisfaction, though. I let her know that I needed some time to cool off and that I didn't want her to contact me for a while.”

Alana sighed and sipped her beer. She was thinking something, but she didn't want to say it out loud because it would require talking about Hannibal, and both she and Will had been avoiding the subject for months. 

“I know what you're thinking,” Will said, quietly. 

“Of course you do,” Alana said, reaching for his hand. 

“I was thinking about it the whole way back up here. About him. The main reason why Lecter had something to hold over Abigail's head – something to manipulate her with – is because of what Freddie did.” 

“He would have found something else,” Alana said. “He always does.”   
“Maybe,” Will whispered. 

“He would have,” Alana said, strongly. 

Will was quiet for a long time, finishing his beer. Alana kept his hand in hers, stroking his fingers. “You're worried about the trial, aren't you?” she finally asked him. 

He nodded. “I have to keep my emotions in check,” he said. “And I thought that I would be okay, I really did. But after today, I'm starting to doubt that.” He turned to her. “I puked my guts out last time I laid eyes on him,” he said. 

“You were still very sick, and very vulnerable,” she said. “But you're doing better now. You get stronger every day.” 

“Is it the same for you?” he asked her. “Seeing his face alone makes me feel sick. I start to shake. I get dizzy. I feel like I can't breathe.” 

“My reaction isn't as severe as yours because I don't have post-traumatic stress,” she said. “But, yes, I struggle, too. There's a reason why we haven't watched the news together for most of the year, a reason why I cancelled the newspaper subscription.” She laughed ironically. “Before I left Georgetown I stopped eating in the cafeteria and faculty lounges because there were televisions in there. I didn't want to see his face – and I didn't want anyone to see me seeing him, either.” 

“Your patients don't mention him, do they?”

“No. If any of them have made a connection between him and me, none of them have brought it up.” She smiled at him and stroked his arm, and he smiled back – just a little, but enough. “My patients are mostly young women whose problems, for them, are bigger and more urgent than the trial of some serial killer. And I'm okay with that.” She leaned in for a kiss, and Will kissed her back, softly and sweetly, the kiss of a fond and dear lover who knew her inside and out. 

 

Alana had just escorted one of her patients out to the waiting room and was heading back to her office when Jenny stopped her in the hallway. She was pale. Alana grasped her arm anxiously. “What's wrong?”

“Go in your office,” Jenny whispered.

They both went inside and Jenny shut the door behind her. “My mom just called,” Jenny said. “There are these awful pictures of Will all over the news --”

“Oh my God,” Alana screeched, putting her hands over her mouth. “They're the pictures the police took, the ones from the hospital, aren't they?” 

“Yeah,” Jenny said. “They just leaked, or something – I don't know.”

“I do,” Alana said, a surge of anger rising in her chest. “I know _exactly_ who fucking leaked them. I know _exactly_ why.” _Freddie, you petty, nasty bitch_ , she thought. _Please, God, give me the strength not to track her down and kick her ass right now._ She was surprised to discover she was pacing and had balled her hands into fists. 

Alana went to her computer and signed on. “I want to see them,” she said to Jenny.

“Are you sure? My mom said they're nasty.”

“I saw it when it happened,” Alana said, opening her internet browser and typing in the address for Tattle Crime. “It can't be any worse than what I remember.” 

In moments, Tattle Crime had loaded – front and center was the bold black headline: _TATTLE CRIME EXCLUSIVE: Will Graham's Grisly Wounds from Hannibal the Cannibal!_ “WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT” was in red type below the headline. 

Alana clicked on the link and the pictures started to load – they had been taken in the emergency room at Johns Hopkins. Most of Will's face was hidden behind the gloved hands of the doctors and nurses as well as the ventilator bag they were using to keep him breathing, but what she could see of his skin was gray. His eyes were closed. As she scrolled further down, there were pictures of Will's torso: ECG leads and defibrillator pads were stuck to his chest. The wound in his abdomen was still fresh and there was blood everywhere – she could see his intestines inside the vast gap Hannibal's cut had made. 

Alana had thought she could handle it, but she doubled over, as if someone had punched her square in the stomach. She felt Jenny grab her and call her name – Alana seemed to fly out of her body for a moment, and when she came to, she felt her knees going weak. Jenny was holding her up. “It's okay, I've got you,” Jenny was saying. 

“These are on the news?” Alana asked her incredulously. 

“My mom saw them and I doubt she knows what Tattle Crime is,” Jenny said. 

Alana leaned on her desk and forced herself to breathe, in and out, in and out. She was shaking uncontrollably. “I need to call Will,” she said. “Where's my phone?” she asked Jenny, absently, while she moved her gaze to her desk, seeing nothing but the horror in her mind's eye. 

“It's here, babe,” Jenny said, gently, putting Alana's phone in her hand. “Come, sit down.” Jenny led her to the sofa and put an arm around her. 

Alana dialed Will and, on the other end of the line, his phone was ringing: once, twice, three times. “Pick up,” she whispered. “Pick up.” 

On the fourth ring, just as she knew she would hit his voicemail, he picked up. “Hey,” he said, sounding cheerful. _He doesn't know yet_ , she thought. 

“Hey. I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice shaking. 

“What's wrong? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine.” She took a deep breath. “Listen. Freddie leaked the pictures the police took of you when you first arrived at the hospital, at Johns Hopkins. Please, Will...don't look at them. I'm begging you.” Her voice broke again. “They're on her website and they're already all over the news. I don't want you to have to see that. Just...don't turn on the TV, okay?” 

“Alana, you sound upset,” he said. “I'll come up and see you.”

“No, no – I have patients I need to see, and Jenny's here. Just stay home. Please. I'll be home soon.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, baby,” she said, breaking down in tears. 

“Alana --” he said.

“I'll be fine. I promise. I'll call you back before I leave.” 

“I'll talk to you then,” he said. After another round of “I love you,” she hung up the phone. Her tears turned into sobs, and Jenny hugged her.

“Oh God, Jen, I can't breathe...” she sobbed. 

“It's okay, babe. I'm here.” Jenny stroked her hair. “You'll be fine.” 

“Will's going to see them,” she moaned. “He's going to search them out, just like I did.” 

“Yeah, he is. You can't protect him.”

“I know.” She broke her embrace with Jenny and put her head into her hands. “He was doing so well, too. He's nervous about the trial, of course, but he was feeling better, doing better...” 

“Have faith in him, Lana,” Jenny said gently. “Besides, look at yourself. No offense, but you're a fucking mess.”

In spite of herself, Alana laughed. “I just flipped my shit, didn't I?” she asked, wiping her face. 

Jenny frowned. “That was worth flipping your shit over,” she said. “You know the person who leaked those?”

“Yeah. She runs that website, Tattle Crime. She and Will had a fight a few days ago.”

“That's pretty fucking vile on her part,” Jenny said.

“That's her,” Alana said. “She didn't do this for the money – but I can guarantee she just made a lot of it. She did it to get back at Will.” 

Jenny rubbed her back again. “I gotta go, babe. I have a patient waiting. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm all right, Jen. Thank you for being here.” She grasped Jenny's hand and squeezed it. 

“Of course,” Jenny said, smiling gently and rising from the sofa. “Let me get that off your screen before I go.”

Alana nodded, purposefully not looking at her. 

“Do you want me to tell Laurie to cancel your appointments for the rest of the day?” Jenny asked as she headed towards the computer. 

Alana sighed. “No, I need to see my patients,” she said, running a hand through her hair and then smoothing her dress. Jenny, who had finished with the computer and put it to sleep, walked back to the sofa and stood in front of her. Alana smiled at her. “How do I look?” she asked. 

“Your makeup's smudged,” Jenny said, smiling back gently. “But you still look hot.” 

“Thanks,” Alana said, with a little smile and laugh. “You know, it's been a while since you flirted with me. I miss it.” 

Jenny winked. “Anytime, babe,” she said, then left and closed the door behind her. 

Alana let out a long breath, calming herself, and then walked over to her desk and opened the drawer where she kept her makeup bag. _You can do this_ , she told herself, breathing deeply and pulling out her foundation, eyeliner, and mascara. _You can do this._

 

She gauged Will's mood carefully when she came home. He greeted her at the door with a long hug and a kiss. “You okay?” he asked, caressing her shoulder. 

“I'm fine,” she said. “Pissed, but fine.” She sighed. “You looked up the pictures, didn't you?”

He nodded. “I would have seen them at trial,” he said quietly.

“There's no guarantee of that.”

“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “If the prosecution doesn't use them, the defense will. Or I would have run into them someplace else – some reporter, a TV show, something like that. I didn't want anyone to catch me off-guard.” 

“I understand,” she said. “How are you?”

“I'm okay.” He sighed. “Also pissed at Freddie. Still glad to be alive. A lot of things.” 

“I flipped out at the office,” Alana said. “I lost it. Everything came rushing back – all of my fear, desperation...grief. That was the worst time of my life. And seeing those pictures made me remember it all.” 

He kissed her forehead. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” 

“I was the one who fought with Freddie. I completely forgot she had those pictures to blackmail me with.” 

“Will,” she said. “You're not to blame for what she did. It was petty and gross, and we know now that we can never trust her again. The only person she cares about is herself.” 

Late that evening, she and Will lay in bed together. Alana was nodding off, her head on his shoulder. 

“Alana?” he said quietly. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Barely.”

He chuckled. “I'm lucky, you know?”

“You are, my love,” she said into his shoulder. 

“I really don't remember that night, after I was stabbed,” he said. “I remember talking to you, and then the paramedics showed up and things faded out. I don't remember much of the rest of that month...just bits, here and there.” He ran a warm hand up her back, through her hair, and up into the crown of her head. “But you remember all of it. I have it easy, compared to you.”

She scoffed against his shoulder. “This isn't a contest, Will, on who has the most trauma.” 

He stroked her hair. “I know,” he said. “But I'm more angry at Freddie for hurting you in her misguided attempt to hurt me.” 

She hugged him closer. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “We'll talk more in the morning.”

“No more,” Alana said. “I don't want to give her another thought.” She sighed. “I just want this whole thing to be over.”

“I do, too,” she heard Will say as she closed her eyes.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

“I am _so_ the wrong person to ask about this,” Alana said as she looked up at Will from the document on his laptop.

“Why?” he asked. At the kitchen island, he continued chopping tomatoes. 

“Because I love everything you write. I'm a terrible critic.” 

He smiled. “I still want to hear what you think.”

She huffed. “Well, I haven't looked up at you in --” she squinted down at the clock on the computer. “Forty-five minutes. I've had to pee for at least half an hour, but I didn't do that, either. That's what I thought about it.” 

Will chuckled. “I guess that says a lot,” he said. 

“I can't believe this guy's still in prison,” she replied incredulously, shaking her head. “Without his ex-girlfriend's testimony, there's no evidence he was involved in the murder. Once she retracted her testimony and said the police coerced her under threat to testify, the case should have been thrown out.” 

“Prosecutors in the deep South don't like to admit they're wrong,” Will said. He slid the chopped tomatoes off the cutting board and into a bowl with the edge of his knife. “Prosecutors in general don't like to admit they're wrong,” he muttered, a note of bitterness in his voice. 

Alana got up from the dining room chair, then stretched and yawned. “Sitting all day at work is killing my back,” she said with a sigh. “I need to start yoga again.” 

“I wouldn't mind that,” Will said, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Shut up, you,” she said. “I doubt you're up for the Kama Sutra yourself right now.” She walked over to where he stood by the counter, and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “The article is fantastic. You did a good job.” 

“I hope it can get Doyle a new trial, at least,” he said. “I sat in prison for a year knowing I was innocent and it was like torture. I can't imagine what it's like to sit in prison for twenty-eight years.” 

“Thank goodness you'll never have to,” Alana said. She caressed his shoulder and went upstairs to take a bath and put on her pajamas. 

At the beginning of November, Will had been contacted by the Innocence Project to consult on some cases that lacked DNA evidence that would fully exonerate the client. Michael Doyle's case had been the first he had consulted on – Will had given them a report of his findings and a profile of the possible killer, but he had suggested that writing an article about the case would be useful, since it would get some media attention. _The Atlantic_ had agreed to publish it, mostly based on Will's name and reputation alone. Alana had just finished reading his first draft for them. 

Now that he was officially retired from the FBI, Will was gravitating towards a writing career. He still worked as a consultant for new crimes, but when he didn't have an assignment, Alana often found him pouring over very old cold cases from around the country. Alana had suggested he start a blog and he seemed receptive to the idea, but wasn't fully committed yet. In the meantime, he had taken over her home office; Alana used it less since she kept most of her files and work on the computer in her practice, so she had given Will the space. The act had the added bonus of keep the dining room table clear – an important victory in a home that housed two skilled researchers. 

Upstairs, in their bedroom, Alana took off her clothes – since she had gone into private practice and spent most of her days in her quiet office, she found herself dressing more comfortably and casually – wiped off her makeup, and drew herself a warm bath. The water eased the pain in her sore back and she exited the tub refreshed. 

As she finished her bath and combed her damp hair, she heard Will in the backyard, whistling to the dogs. She thought, as she often did, about how the both of them had been so used to solitary lives and how throughly they had come to rely on one another. While they had had their spats over space and they did, occasionally, annoy each other, Will had always been willing to adapt his habits to hers as much as he could, and she was willing to put up with wherever they couldn't meet. He had also opened up so much in the past two years that the shadow of a man he was when he first moved in with her seemed like a distant memory. 

Smirking to herself, she walked over to the bedroom window that faced the backyard and opened the drapes, putting her naked body on display solely for him. She saw Will in the yard by the back porch lights, herding the dogs inside. There were white flecks of snow in his hair. Alana tapped the window, hard, with her fist to get his attention: he looked up at her and, in response to his gaze, she smiled and groped her own vulva. He grinned boyishly and she heard him wolf-whistle. She kissed the window, the glass cold on her lips, and then shut the drapes, cutting off his view. 

She put on her silk pajamas, warm robe, and slippers and then went downstairs, grabbing a beer from the fridge. Will was hanging up his jacket, damp from snow, in the foyer. “My mom called about Thanksgiving,” she called from the kitchen, as she popped the cap off her beer. 

Will came in, rubbing his hands together. “You rub your crotch at the window and then you start talking about your mother?” he said incredulously. 

“That was for later,” she said with a wink. “But yes, I did speak to her. She understands that it's our choice, but wants us to come for Thanksgiving. She promises things will be different than last year.” 

Will nodded. “What do you want to do?” 

“I haven't seen the kids in a while. I'd like to see them. And Easter was okay, you remember?”

“I remember I asked your dad about marrying you and he tried to talk me out of it.” He shrugged. “I don't mind going,” he said softly. Alana could tell that the humiliation he'd experienced still smarted. “It's fine with me.” 

“You don't sound like it's fine with you,” she said, careful to keep her voice even, trying to express concern rather than anger. 

He sighed. “Last year was difficult and I'd prefer not to repeat it,” he said. “Truthfully. But they are your family and I have no right to keep you from them.” 

“And you're now part of my family,” she said. She huffed, then put a hand on her hip. “Let's make a deal – we go, but if anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, we'll leave. Both of us. I'll tell my parents about it. No one has any reason to ice us out any more.” 

“Okay,” he said, nodding. 

“That's an honest okay?” she asked. “Not just an okay to appease me?” 

“It's an honest okay,” he said. “I want what you want. If you want to see your family, then that's what I want too.”

She reached for his hand. “I know you would prefer it to be just us,” she said. “And I know this isn't easy for you. But I would like you to look at it from my perspective. A rejection of you also means a rejection of me – a rejection of my free will, my judgement, my choices. And I will _not_ let that happen again.” She stroked the side of his face – his cheek was cold. 

He nodded. “I understand.” 

“Good,” she said. “Now, I'm hungry, so let's eat. And then after that, I want sex.” 

Will laughed and then embraced her, lifting her robe and squeezing her ass. “You've been particularly bossy lately,” he said in her ear. The tickle of his breath against her skin made her knees weak, but she held on, refusing to submit. “You don't seem threatened by that,” she said, smirking. 

“I'm not,” he said, smiling and then kissing her, softly, around her mouth, denying her the pleasure of a full kiss. 

“Mmm, give me a kiss,” she insisted.

“No,” he said. “You tease me and then I get to tease you. That's how this works, doesn't it?”

She giggled. “I love you,” she said fondly. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

He kissed her on her forehead, smoothing down the damp hair at the crown of her head. “You're far from crazy,” he said. 

 

Alana's plans were foiled when Will caught the flu the day before Thanksgiving. She woke to him shivering so badly from chills that she forced him into the shower. Even Jenny's herbal “miracle” tea, which Alana had been using since college to halt nasty illnesses, was of little use. By that evening, he was in a NyQuil haze. 

Late on Thanksgiving morning, she went into the guest room – Will was sleeping in there so she wouldn't catch his flu – and, gently moving Winston aside, sat down on the bed next to him. “I don't have to go today,” she said. “I can stay here with you.” 

He shook his head. “I'll be fine. And you wanted to see the kids.” She must have looked upset, because he stroked her arm and said, “Alana, you are the only person crazy enough to want me around you right now.” 

In spite of herself, she laughed. “That's true.” She stroked his hair and forehead, glad that his fever was down. She sighed. “I suppose I'm worried it will look bad if you don't come. I know that I'm not lying about you being sick, but...” 

“No one will miss me,” he said softly and more than a little sadly. “I wish I could be the gregarious, life-of-the-party guy whose absence would be noticed, but I'm not.” 

“I don't want you to be that way,” she insisted. “ _I'm_ not that way.” She curled her legs and knees on the bed and lay her head down on the pillow next to his. “I guess I was just looking forward to us having a nice holiday together.” 

“We can still have Thanksgiving. You can shoot the turkey yourself, Annie.” He mimed holding up a rifle, making a _gobble-gobble_ sound with the back of his throat and then a _pow_ , as if he had shot the gun. She giggled and smacked his shoulder affectionately. 

“You should get out of here,” Will said, after a pause. “The bed's gross.” 

“Eh, I've had worse.” 

“Seriously, Alana,” Will said, shifting uncomfortably. “I don't want you to catch this.”

She got up, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I hate when you're practical,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. “I'll bring you a plate from my parents' place.” 

He nodded. “Have a good time. I mean it – _have a good time_.” 

Alana continued to sit next to him, mulling over her thoughts. “Something happened between me and my family,” she finally said. “And as hard as I try, I can't get that feeling of being _included_ back. I feel like an outsider.” 

Will nodded, but he was silent as he listened to her. 

Alana's eyes filled with tears. “My parents are better, but my brothers are still shutting me out. I mean, I don't exactly like all of their wives, either, but I'm not _rude_ to them. I don't act like I'm better than they are. But they still think that it's acceptable to be rude to me – and rude to _you_ , which hurts me even more.” She wiped away her angry tears. “I don't want to go, Will, _I don't_. I've changed my mind.” 

Will was quiet for a while. “You should do what you want to do,” he finally said. 

“What I want isn't _right_ ,” Alana said petulantly. 

“Who says?” 

She laughed. “You sound like my therapist.”

Will smiled and lay back on his pillow. “I'll take that as a compliment.” 

Alana scoffed and shook her head. “I just realized I'm going today out of a sense of duty and obligation. I'm going because I want to prove something. And honestly...I don't care any more. I have nothing to prove to anyone.” She stood. “And besides, it's snowing out and I don't want to leave my warm little house or my hot man.” 

Will chuckled. “Your feverish, snotty, hoarse, coughy man.” 

“I know,” she said. “That's why I said you were hot, silly.” 

Alana went downstairs to call her mother and cancel, saying she thought she was catching Will's flu, and then spent the afternoon baking fresh bread and cooking homemade creamy chicken soup. Will came downstairs eventually, the dogs trailing after him, and Alana checked him for a fever. “You're a little warm again,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“I'll survive,” Will said, smiling his ironic smile. “The food smells good – what I can smell of it, anyway.”

She grinned. “Thanks. If you're hungry later I can try to scrape together something more like Thanksgiving.” 

“Maybe,” Will said noncommittally. “It's really up to you, though. I'm fine with soup.” 

They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the couch together, eating and binge-watching reruns of _The Americans_. Alana had a slice of pumpkin pie and two glasses of Wild Turkey for the occasion, but Will had to pass on the alcohol since he was dosing himself with NyQuil. He soon nodded off, sleeping soundly for hours with his sock-clad feet in her lap.

While he slept, Alana mulled over her decision to skip her family's dinner. It was still difficult for her to turn the doctor side of herself off sometimes, especially when she made a decision that she felt uncomfortable with. She felt bad for disappointing her parents and not seeing her nieces and nephews, but she also knew that, had she gone without Will, she would have missed him the whole time. 

But that was the least of it – she had realized today that she was _angry_ with her brothers. As the youngest of her siblings and the only girl in a house with so much masculine energy, her relationship with them had never been entirely smooth. Her brothers were very protective of her, to the point of stifling her – she had tried, as a child, to play with them, but they pushed her away until she eventually stopped trying. 

Alana's troubled relationship with her brothers only worsened as her relationship with Will developed. He had been exonerated, through great trouble and great expense, but that didn't seem to be good enough. _Will_ wasn't good enough: not for her parents, not for her brothers. Will was poor and unemployed and his voice slipped into a telltale Southern lilt when he was drunk. He didn't come from a world where young men played lacrosse, received fraternity pins on legacy at the University of Virginia, and married slim and lovely sorority sisters they met at mixers. 

Alana had rejected that, with her gay friends and her cigarettes and road trips listening to The Smiths or The Sundays. She had rejected that with the tattoo just above her ass, which she covered in Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses and Tory Burch skirt sets. Now her house smelled like dog and she was excited about learning how to fly-fish and remembering how to build a fire from scratch. 

She was becoming – had become – someone else. The longer she was with Will, the longer she was away from Georgetown, and the longer Hannibal's influence on her life was silenced, the clearer this new Alana Bloom became. It was like wiping condensation off a mirror and glimpsing herself for the first time. 

_The key is_ , she asked herself, absently stroking Will's ankles as she thought, _do you have the strength to become this new Alana – really become her, forever? Is it okay for you to disappoint your parents, your brothers? Is it okay for you to have a life with a man like Will and to know that your family will never really accept it?_

She looked at Will, his pale face relaxed in sleep. She had made her choice long ago, it was true, but it was only now that she was truly realizing what it meant.


	38. Chapter 38

Will's article for the _Atlantic_ was quite successful, and soon he was getting more requests from other magazines for articles and interviews. Unfortunately, most of the requests were for him to discuss Hannibal Lecter, so Will had to refuse them because of the gag order for Hannibal's upcoming trial. If Will participated in any major public discussion of the case, it could jeopardize his role as a witness – and, according to the prosecutors, he was _the_ star witness of the case. The success of the trial would rely largely on his testimony. 

In spite of Will's central role in the trial, he and Alana had heard very little news about it, besides the fact that it was tentatively set to begin in the summer. Since Hannibal had refused a plea deal, the federal prosecutors were trying to sort through the cases they thought would be most likely to result in a conviction; it would be unreasonable to ask a jury to decide on hundreds of felony charges. Originally, the prosecutors had wanted two charges of attempted murder for Hannibal's attacks on Will and Mason Verger; however, Verger, Hannibal's only other living and coherent victim, would be unable to testify in court, so one of the charges had been dropped. As for the murders, the only one Alana knew Hannibal would definitely be put on trial for was that of Benjamin Raspail, mostly because Hannibal had recorded it. The FBI's slam-dunk case was being thoroughly destroyed by Hannibal's expensive team of lawyers – even the murders Hannibal had framed Will for, the ones he had confessed to, were being questioned by the defense, who were planning to claim Hannibal was insane. 

Alana still avoided talking about the details of the trial with Will. In her heart, she longed only to forget Hannibal, still locked in his cage at Baltimore State Hospital, but she knew that would be impossible. Will seemed to want to avoid the subject, too – or, at least, he never brought it up with her. 

Meanwhile, they prepared for their first Christmas together. Alana, overjoyed that Will was well and with her, spent a ridiculous amount of money on Christmas décor for the house. “The only word I have for this is _festooned_ ,” Will said, chuckling, as Alana pinned a mistletoe garland on the ceiling of the front foyer, near the door. 

“ _Festooned_ is a good word,” she said, climbing down off the ladder. “It would get you quite a bit at Scrabble.” She leaned in for a kiss and he planted one softly on her mouth. “My parents have a miniature ceramic Christmas village,” she continued. “It used to be small enough to go under the tree, but now it takes up most of the living room. They have every building you can think of except for a bar – not much of a market for those, unfortunately. But there's even a motorized sled with Santa and the reindeer.” 

“So this is nothing, then?” Will said, stroking her hair. 

“It's just a little holiday cheer,” she said, smiling up at him. 

That evening, they went and picked out their first Christmas tree – Alana had insisted on a real one. Will followed her lead at the tree lot. “You're the one who would pick the Charlie Brown tree,” Alana told him. “The little runt in the lot. You'd take that one home.” 

“I would,” he said, smiling. 

“And that's why I love you,” she said. “But _I'm_ picking out the tree.” 

They toured the lot for more than an hour until Alana chose the tree. She and Will put on gloves and secured it to the roof of the Volvo themselves. 

Getting the tree into the house – and dodging seven dogs in the process – was difficult, but Alana breathed a sigh of relief when the tree was upright in the living room. There was a trail of pine needles leading from the front door, through the foyer, and across the living room carpet. Will handed her a glass of Wild Turkey and kissed her temple. “I'm too tired to decorate it tonight,” she said, downing her drink.

“There's no rush,” Will said softly beside her, nursing his own glass. 

“I had this vision of us sitting on the sofa tonight with the tree glowing,” she said. 

Will chuckled. “It really is a nice tree,” he said.

She sighed. “I'm starting to think we should have gone with the Charlie Brown tree after all.”

He smiled. “Would have been easier to decorate,” he said. “Only one red ball.” 

She laughed, then snuggled against him, holding her empty glass against his chest. “Another one of these might give me a second wind,” she said, raising her eyebrows. 

“Then I'll get you one straightaway, my lady,” he said with a smile. 

By the time the tree was decorated, it was well past midnight and Alana and Will had finished off the bottle of Wild Turkey. She lay on the couch with him, her head in his lap, watching the golden lights twinkle. “I love Christmas,” she murmured. 

“I love you,” he said, stroking her hair. “And Christmas with you will be very nice.” 

“I've never had a reason to put up my own Christmas tree,” she said. “I don't know...it just makes the house feel more like home.” She looked up at Will. “Did you ever have a tree?”

“Not until my dad got married,” Will said. “We couldn't really afford it when I was growing up. But my stepmom liked having a tree, especially after my brothers were born.”

“Do you ever think about them? Where they are? What they're doing?”

“Sometimes,” Will said. “They are my brothers. But their life was very different from mine, and I'm not sure if that's something we'd ever be able to overcome.” 

As she listened to him, Alana felt the stir inside her that she sometimes felt – the stir inside her that longed for a solid future with Will. A home, a family: it was something that both terrified her and that, she knew, was the deepest and most profound desire of her heart. Even though she and Will had been together, now, for nearly two years, she had yet to summon up the courage to ask him if he wanted the same. Did he, too, dream of his own children opening presents under a Christmas tree? 

“Alana?” she heard him say, softly, and she noticed she was crying. “You all right?”

“I'm fine, my love,” she said, patting his arm. “Just drunk, I think. Bed soon.” 

It was a half-truth; she was tipsy, but she also knew Will could tell she was lying. His empathy – sometimes it was the most wonderful thing she could imagine, and other times, it was incredibly annoying. 

But Will chose not to press the issue. Before long, she was asleep in his lap, waking a little only when he placed a blanket over her. He turned out the living room lights but kept the tree lit, its warm lights twinkling serenely. 

 

Jack Crawford invited Will and Alana over to dinner at his house on December 23 – the anniversary of Hannibal's arrest and the horrible night in Baltimore Alana would never forget. The core team of the BAU would be there, including Beverly. Part of Alana knew she would be glad to see her old coworkers, but another part of her also knew the evening would be difficult: there would be talk of all the subjects she had been purposefully avoiding for months. _Stop being such a coward_ , she chastised herself in the bathroom mirror after she and Will had accepted Jack's invitation. _Since when do you avoid the hard subjects? You know the only way to heal is to face them head-on. You forced Will into them, you force your patients into them, but you're not willing to do the same for yourself?_

Will noticed her sour mood but seemed to want to wait for it to pass; he was exceedingly patient with her, and Alana felt the dull ache of guilt whenever she had to apologize after snapping at him. Finally, a few evenings before the 23rd, he confronted her. “You know you don't have to go to Jack's if you don't want to,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “Jack invited me, and I'm not refusing his invitation.” She sighed. “I don't know what's wrong with me,” she said quietly, playing with her food. 

“Of course you do,” Will said. “You're just afraid to admit it. You're afraid it'll make you seem weak, and you detest weakness.” He reached for her hand across the table and grasped it. “We both need to talk about what's going to happen.” 

“I don't want to,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “Especially with other people around. I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep myself together.” 

“I'm not sure any of us will be able to,” he said quietly. 

“I feel as if it will never stop hurting,” she said, and suddenly hot tears filled her eyes and her throat closed. She pushed her dinner away and got up from the table, only dimly hearing Will call her name.

She began rushing away through the kitchen but before she realized it, Will had caught her in his arms and was holding her against him. “Stop, Alana,” he said, just the right amount of force in his voice. “Stop running.” 

An unexpected rage rose within her – she wanted to push him away, even slap him – but, as quick as it came, her anger cooled and her rational side kicked in. _Stop running_. That was what she was doing – what she had been doing for so long, she hadn't realized it. 

With that realization, she went weak in the knees and lay her forehead against Will's shoulder. “I can't,” she moaned. “I can't look at him, I can't face him, I just want him to rot in that _fucking_ cell and leave us alone.” 

“We have to be the ones that keep him there,” Will said, stroking her back. “No matter how much it hurts.” 

She let out a breath with a huff, then looked up at Will, who gently cradled her face in one of his hands. “I know what I have to do,” she said, “but I just can't bring myself to do it.” 

“Alana, you're not one to run and hide.” 

“I would have said the same thing, except that's exactly what I'm doing. And the worst part is, you know it, too.” 

“Why is it worse?” he asked. 

She laughed ironically. “I had this assumption that I was supposed to be the stable one in this relationship.” 

“As opposed to crazy Will Graham?” he said, joking a bit. Alana was glad she didn't seem to have hurt his feelings.

“You're not crazy.” She hugged him, closing her eyes, loving his familiar smell and touch and the way he held her, like home. “You're as sane as I am.” 

“That's not saying much any more, Doctor,” he said, kissing her forehead. “By your own admittance.” 

Mentally, she kicked herself for not letting him in sooner, for closing herself off to him. It had been incredibly selfish: he needed her just as much as she needed him. 

“I'm really glad you didn't hit me,” he said, half teasing. “I saw a glint in your eye. I thought I was going to get it for a second there.” 

“You can't hide much when your partner's an empath,” she said. 

“Or a psychiatrist,” he said. “But treatment's cheap, at least.” 

She smiled against him. “I'm sorry for acting like a child.”

“We all throw temper tantrums. I've had my fair share.” He grasped onto her more tightly, lifting her off her feet. “ _I don't wanna, I don't wanna!_ ” he screeched in a high-pitched voice as he jumped up and down. In spite of herself, she giggled. He stopped jumping and said, “I was just clever enough to cloak mine in ten-dollar words.” 

She knew he was doing his best to try to cheer her up. She appreciated his efforts. “Thank you, baby,” she said, tilting her head back so that he could kiss her, which he did with an obnoxious sucking sound that sent her into peals of laughter. 

 

Alana felt much more at peace for the rest of the month, and felt excited for Christmas again by the time she started her vacation. Will had just turned in another article, again to the _Atlantic_ , about a series of disappearances that he had linked to the same perpetrator and profiled while he had worked in the lab at the BAU. It was the case that had gotten him noticed by the Academy, gotten him his teaching job – but it was still unsolved. Will was hoping the article would shake something out. 

While Alana was pleased with the success of her private practice, she missed forensic psychiatry. That part of herself lived vicariously through Will, and they often discussed the cases he was working on. He actively sought out her opinion and valued her input. Not many couples, she knew, discussed murder cases or suspicious disappearances over dinner before curling up together and watching _Dateline_ or _48 Hours_ , or considered crawling over their office floor together analyzing crime scene photos a pleasant Sunday afternoon. 

_So this is why you never got married_ , Alana heard her mother's voice in her head say one of those Sunday afternoons, after she and Will had spent several hours talking about types of ligatures and what each type indicated about a suspect. 

Though Will had made some extra money off of his articles and consulting work, Alana had insisted on a quiet and frugal Christmas. “No jewelry, no expensive clothes or lingerie, and I don't need any kitchen gadgets,” she'd said when Will had asked her what she wanted. 

“Okay,” he'd said, his voice measured but bemused. 

“Honestly, I have enough stuff.” She smiled as she loaded the dishwasher. “Get me something funny.” 

“Something funny?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, liking the idea the more she thought about it. “It's been a long time since I've gotten a funny gift.”

“I've never gotten one,” Will said, then lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “People think I don't have a sense of humor.” 

“Well, that was _your_ fault,” she said back, playfully. “Walking around the BAU talking about murder.”

“Everyone talked about murder in the BAU.”

“Not _as the killer_.” 

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that would alienate people.” He smiled a shy smile. “Okay. I'll try to find you something funny.” He paused for a moment. “So, do you mean ha-ha funny, or weird funny?”

“Let's just say, smart ass, that if you get me a glass dildo, you're going outside naked in the cold.” She closed the dishwasher, smiling to herself – his gift was already picked up and wrapped, hidden away in her office. It was a fly-fishing kit and a reservation for a prime camping spot in spring, when the weather would be warmer: a promise of better things to come. 

 

It snowed heavily on December 23rd, and Alana decided to have sessions with her patients by phone rather than make them drive – and make the drive herself – to her office. Despite the weather, Jack didn't cancel dinner; it wasn't a long ride to his home in Arlington, but the roads were icy. Alana, driving, cursed the whole way. 

Once they were inside, they were warmly greeted by Jack, Beverly, Jimmy Price, and other members of the core group of the BAU: those who had worked the Chesapeake Ripper case, some of them for years. The mood was more celebratory than she had anticipated – it was the party they would have had, should have had, if Hannibal had not killed three FBI agents and nearly murdered Will before he was apprehended. 

Jack looked well. He told Alana that he was planning on spending the holidays with his brother and family, for the first time in years. When Alana asked him if he had cooked, he laughed: “You don't want to eat what I cook,” he said. He kept everyone's glasses filled and, the more the guests drank, the louder and more raucous the conversation became. 

Alana spent a while talking to Beverly, who was planning her wedding with surprising eagerness: Saul had proposed to her during the Thanksgiving holiday. She showed Alana pictures of her dress on her cell phone. “My parents were so happy they took me to Kleinfeld's in New York,” she said. “I think they thought I would never get married. I chop up dead bodies all day. That tends to scare men off.” 

“Tell me about it,” Alana muttered, while looking at the pictures. She felt a small and unexpected pang of jealousy when she saw the picture of Beverly, beaming with happiness, in her ivory lace wedding gown. “It's so lovely,” Alana said. 

“The temple has modesty requirements so I have to wear a jacket during the ceremony,” Beverly said, swiping through to the next picture, where she was wearing an embroidered lace bolero over the gown. 

Just then, Will walked over and stood by them, a glass of scotch in hand. “We're talking about girl stuff,” Beverly said to him.

“Beverly's wedding,” Alana clarified. 

He squinted a little at the phone. “You look beautiful,” he said, smiling. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you, Will,” Beverly said, reaching for his hand and rubbing it. He didn't flinch away from her touch, or even look upset that she had touched him: a sign of how far he had come since Alana had first met him, and how much Beverly's friendship meant to him. “You look good, by the way,” she continued. “You've gained more weight since I saw you last.”

“I am under strict orders to enjoy a pescetarian diet,” Will said dryly, taking a swig of his scotch. “Fortunately, alcohol isn't off-limits.” 

“If it was, then where would we be?” Alana said. 

Will leaned down and kissed the crown of her head. “I'll leave you to girl stuff,” he said. “I'll search for masculine conversation instead. Which sportsball is in season now?”

Both Alana and Beverly laughed. “Don't ask about the BAU fight club,” Beverly said, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “You'll break its first rule.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Will nodded, winking at her. He smiled again at them and left the room, presumably in search of Jack. 

Alana and Beverly spent more than an hour together, catching up – not only discussing Beverly's wedding, but Alana's new practice and Will's recent articles. “The one in the _Atlantic_ was awesome,” Beverly gushed. “Everyone – _everyone_ – at Quantico read it. It was all anyone would talk about for a week. He puts Freddie Lounds and her shitty blog to shame.” 

“That's probably why they're not working together any more,” Alana said. 

“Has Will received a book offer? He totally deserves it.”

“Yeah, but they all wanted him to write about Hannibal, which he can't do until after the trial. I don't think he'd even want to, to be honest.” Alana paused. “He's got another piece coming out after New Year's. It's even better than the Doyle piece. I'll ask Will to send you an advance copy so you can be ahead of the curve.” 

Beverly started to laugh, a little awkwardly. Alana had never seen her do that before, so she was intrigued. “What is it?” 

“I can't believe I'm about to ask you this...” she said.

“What?” Alana said, lowering her voice a little.

“Well, you know all the stuff that people used to say about Will in the BAU: I didn't believe much of it, because a lot of the rumors made him sound like some forensics superman, and we know that's not possible.” Beverly lowered her voice even further. “I guess Jack's hooch is loosening my tongue a little, but I'm curious – you know Will better than anyone. You know he's like a chess grandmaster. We'll sweat over a case for months, then Jack gives Will a call and it's like magic happens. Suddenly everything makes sense, and then we collar the guy. Now, when you were profiling, you were really good too – I mean it – but you and Will together... _nobody_ could stop you. You caught Hannibal Lecter. Jack got the credit for the collar, but everyone in this room knows you and Will were behind it. So why the fuck are you in private practice and not making a boatload of cash doing consulting work?”

Alana laughed a little. “Honestly, the thought never even crossed my mind. I don't think it crossed Will's, either.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “After I lost my place at Georgetown, I was a mess. It was all I had been working toward my whole career, and it was gone in a few seconds because of a choice I made when I was young and stupid. And Will was still a wreck: he was basically learning how to relive his life. My friend offered me a place in her practice and I took it. It was _safe_. At that time in my life, I needed safe.”

“Do you miss this?” Beverly asked, gesturing to the room – the assembled BAU agents – with her fingers. 

Alana sighed. “Every day.” 

“So come back. The Academy will take you back in a second – you're even more marketable to them since Lecter.” Beverly shifted on the sofa. “Or don't come back to the Academy, if you don't want to, but come work with us in the field again.” Beverly took a sip of her beer. “In spite of their big talk about equal opportunity, the BAU is still a fuckin' boys' club.” Beverly raised her beer. “Boys doing boy things and seeing the way boys do. That's why Will shook them up – he sees like a woman, but has a dick, so they trust him more.” 

Alana mulled over Beverly's words. She knew Beverly was right, in her way – Alana, too, had noticed many of the same problems in her time at the FBI. She could count the number of women in this room, celebrating the success of the BAU's highest profile case in a decade, on one hand.

Beverly's offer was sorely tempting, but Alana had also made a commitment to Jenny, who was her dearest friend and who had plans and desires of her own. Jenny had picked her up when she was down, given her a purpose, and Alana couldn't refuse her gift. 

But for the first time, Alana regretted taking the easy way out. 

“I'll think about it,” she finally said. “I would love to come back, but it's not so easy.” Alana paused, a little awkwardly, and then forced Beverly to change the subject, asking her to tell her more about the wedding. 

Eventually, the alcohol got to Alana's bladder, and she had to excuse herself to pee. While she headed from the living room to the bathroom down the hall, she passed the dining room. Jack and Will were sitting together at the dining room table, absorbed in what looked like an intense conversation. 

Alana didn't want to interrupt them, so she stared straight ahead and walked past the room at a leisurely pace. After she went to the bathroom, she walked down the hallway but stopped just before the entrance to the dining room, listening. She could discern the recognizable tones of Will and Jack's voices, but the conversation in the rest of the house was too loud for her to hear what they were saying. 

After another twenty minutes, Jack and Will emerged from the dining room and joined everyone else in the living room. Will sat down on the arm of the sofa, next to Alana. Jack went around the room, refilling everyone's glasses for a toast, then raised his own glass to get his guests to quiet down. The loud murmur of conversation hushed and then went silent. 

“There's a lot to say,” he began. “To say that this has been the most difficult case of my career would be an understatement. I'm sure a lot of you would agree.” 

Most of the guests nodded.

“In a lot of ways, this feels like a Pyrrhic victory,” Jack said. “The BAU achieved its goal of collaring one of the most prolific and dangerous serial killers of our time, but lost many friends and fellow agents in the process. And I do blame myself for a lot of failure on this case. Our killer was a formidable opponent, but I should have been more so. That was my job.” 

Jack went quiet for a moment, swallowing hard and sloshing the ice in his drink. Alana knew admitting fault was difficult for an accomplished man like him. 

He took a breath, then started again. “My first toast tonight is for all of you – BAU past and present, all of you who worked on this case, often tirelessly and thanklessly. I demanded, I obsessed, I pushed to the breaking point, and you did your jobs in spite of it. Our man isn't put away permanently yet, but we all know the citizens of this area will be safer while he is locked away. That's really what counts. Cheers.” 

He raised his glass, and all the guests followed, saying “Cheers” and clinking their glasses. 

When they had all had their sip, Jack continued. “My second toast tonight is for two specific people – the two people in here who were most instrumental in the conclusion of this case. They gave nearly all of themselves to see Hannibal Lecter behind bars. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't trust their judgment for a long time, far too long. It took me that long to realize that our opponent didn't follow the traditional rules, so neither could we. And these two brave people took the risk upon themselves to show me the way to get this investigation back on course. They are the reason every single one of us is here tonight.” 

Jack turned a little so he was looking directly at Will and Alana. “It's hard to say that something good could come out of a case like this, but it did,” he said, and raised his glass. “To Will Graham and Alana Bloom, who, in the midst of hell, found each other and brought down a monster together. I don't say this lightly – the two of you are some of the finest investigators the Bureau has ever had the privilege of having in its ranks. Cheers.”

Everyone in the room clinked their glasses again and drank to Will and Alana. Beverly rose and hugged and kissed both of them. Jack came over from the front of the room and hugged Will warmly – the first time Alana had ever seen such open affection between the two men. When Jack and Will had finished their embrace, Alana stood and hugged Jack. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his ear. “Thank you,” she murmured to him.

“Thank you,” he said, stroking her shoulder fondly. He smiled. “You know, I get called a pit bull a lot, but they really should save the term for you.” 

Alana laughed. “I'm flattered,” she said, sincerely. “Usually I just get flower names.”

“You are far, far more than that,” he said. He smiled at her and then turned towards his guests. “Our last toast tonight is for our fallen colleagues, who made the ultimate sacrifice in the pursuit of the Chesapeake Ripper. May we always honor their memories, and may they rest in peace knowing their killer has been brought to justice. To Miriam Lass, Alex Underwood, and Frank Donnelly.” 

The crowd raised their glasses, murmured a doleful “Cheers,” and drank once more. Once they had finished, Jack paused for a few moments, then spoke again. “There's plenty of food in the kitchen for you. And before you ask – no, I did not cook it.” 

There was some laughter, and then the buzz of conversation rose again. The guests began heading towards the kitchen. Alana and Beverly rose, too, but Will stayed seated. “Want me to bring you a plate?” Alana asked him.

“I'll go later,” he said.

Alana nodded, not surprised. Will seemed to be doing his best to avoid interacting with Jack's other guests – she wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep it up, but she couldn't blame Will for finding comfort in his normal behavior. 

Getting her plate in Jack's kitchen took a while: many of the people she knew, either from the BAU or the Academy, wanted to talk to her. A lot of them asked her if she was ever coming back to teach at the Academy again. She was surprised so many people had noticed her absence: though she was proud to have been chosen to lecture at the Academy, she had never thought of herself as being particularly influential, considering the abundance of talent already there. 

Finally, after half an hour of standing in Jack's kitchen with a slowly-crafted plate of food in her hand, she was agreeing to end her leave of absence and return to the Academy to guest lecture. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Will wander into the kitchen. He had been wearing his eyeglasses all night – Alana wasn't used to seeing him wearing them, since he almost never wore them at home with her. 

A few of Will's former colleagues greeted him and shook his hand. She watched as he made polite small talk with them. He was still not entirely comfortable with so many people around him, but at least he was here, and talking to people. The old Will wouldn't have even come. 

Eventually, Alana and Will were able to join each other again at Jack's dining table. Many of the guests were heading back into the kitchen for more food, since Jack had ordered plenty, so the dining room was quiet. “How are you?” Alana asked Will.

“Okay,” he said softly. “How are you?”

“Good, actually. I might be heading back to the Academy to lecture.”

He smiled genuinely. “That's really good. I'm glad to hear it.” 

She took a few bites of her food – it was helping to alleviate the effects of the alcohol she had drank – and then spoke again. “What were you and Jack talking about?”

“Rumors, mostly.” He paused. “About the trial.” He was tiptoeing around her, and Alana realized she didn't like it. 

“We can talk about it. I know you're avoiding the subject because of me. But I'm ready.” She let out a breath in a huff. “Or, at least, I think I'm ready.” 

Will shook his head. “Not here. We'll talk about it on the way home.” 

“Why?”

“It's insider information. And, also, you're not going to like it.”

Alana sighed. “Fuck, Will.”

He shrugged a little. “I'm just being honest.” 

“I guess we have a pleasant drive to look forward to.” 

He smiled a little. “The blizzard outside not making it pleasant enough already for you?” 

Alana finished her meal silently, her stomach turning. Any enjoyment she'd had from the evening was gone. Will, realizing she didn't feel like talking, finished his food in silence, too, but kissed the crown of her head as he took her plate into the kitchen. 

She felt relief when the evening was over because it meant that she had to stop pretending to be happy and gracious, but dreaded the drive home. Will offered to drive this time, and she agreed. 

She wrapped herself in her coat and watched the snow batter the windshield as Will headed from Jack's home towards the highway. Christmas songs were playing quietly on the radio. Finally, she couldn't stand the tension any longer. “Just tell me,” she said. 

“Ganser syndrome,” Will answered, taking a quick glance at her. “That's Lecter's defense.” 

She shook her head vehemently. “That's not possible. Even if a psychiatrist actually believes Ganser syndrome is real – which not many do – it's most often associated with people who are already in prison, not out of it. It makes no sense.” Her voice had risen by the end and she kicked herself mentally for her lack of control. 

Will nodded. “Lecter's lawyers are saying everything he said in his confessions was a delusion of his illness. They can't explain away all the DNA evidence in his basement, so they have to say he's crazy or he'll be executed. They have enough to convict him.” 

“And Hannibal is playing along with this? It's not his style. He'd be the last person to claim insanity.” 

“It's either that or he pleads guilty and gets life in supermax. Obviously he doesn't want to plea.” Will went silent. Alana began to wish, again, that she had never brought up the topic, never insisted that Will tell her. 

“And Jack is just telling you this _now_?” she asked him, after a long pause. 

“We haven't talked about it, to be honest. He had no idea Lecter and his lawyers would get it as far as they have. I mean, it sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?” 

“Yes,” Alana murmured. “It does. It sounds completely insane...to anyone who doesn't know Hannibal.”

He spared another quick glance at her. “It all began as a conversation about you, anyway.” 

“Me?”

“Yes. Jack asked about you, how you were coping, and I told him the truth – that you were avoiding the subject, which we _all_ are because if we weren't, we would all be nuts by now.” 

Alana groaned. “I'm already nuts.”

Will chucked a little. “I've noticed.” He continued. “Apparently Chilton and at least two other forensic psychiatrists have had extensive sessions with Lecter at his lawyers' request, and the sessions have all been a mess. He's taken to making origami with the tests. He knows how to beat the system.” 

“Of course he does!” she shouted. “He's a fucking psychiatrist himself!” She punched the armrest of her door, then, after calming herself, she sighed. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to yell at you. It's not you I'm mad at.” 

They spent the rest of the ride home in near-silence, Alana only speaking when she told Will of her decision to start visiting her psychiatrist again. “I've been hell on you, and it's not fair.” 

“You've put up with a lot more of my shit than I ever have of yours,” Will said pointedly. 

Alana couldn't explain why – and she had contemplated giving up by now – but she began to cry a little, and she felt Will's hand grasp hers. She kissed it and held it to her cheek, savoring its warmth. 

When they arrived home, Will took the dogs out while Alana changed into her warm pajamas and made them both cups of chamomile tea. Will came into the kitchen, his dark hair spotted with snow and his hands cold when she handed him his mug. 

As he sipped his tea in the quiet kitchen, Alana unbuttoned his jacket and ran her hands up and down his torso, still annoyingly clad in a shirt and heavy sweater. She pulled his shirttail out of his trousers and, softly, stroked the warm skin of his belly. “I want to fuck you,” she said. 

He laid his mug on the counter. “I don't know.” 

“Why not?” she asked. 

“Because you're upset.” 

“So what?” 

He sucked in a breath. “Just say it,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“I can't have sex with you when you're upset,” he said. “I'll pick up on it.” He lowered his head, almost shameful. “I'm sorry.” 

Alana removed her hand from under his shirt, but he took her in his arms and held her close. “Tomorrow's Christmas Eve,” he said.

“ _Today_ is Christmas Eve, officially,” she corrected him, smiling a little. “It's after midnight.” 

“Well, later _today_ , we can have all the sex you want. But I can't do it tonight. I'm sorry, Alana.”

She nodded against him: in her heart, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to be used. And with that came a stab of shame that she was using him. It wasn't Will who should be apologizing – it was her.

“Let's go to bed,” he said, and arm-in-arm, they went upstairs. She sat on the bed, her head on her knees, while Will quickly showered so that he would come to bed warm. It was a habit he had started since he had begun to sleep with her: their bed would never be cold on his account. 

Alana kept no mirrors in her bedroom, but she didn't want to look at herself anyway. 

By the time Will came out of the bathroom in his flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirt, she was already in bed, under the comforter and extra blankets. He climbed in bed next to her, the bedroom lamp extinguishing with a wink before he spooned her. Alana stroked his forearm, but it was a while before she heard his breathing even out behind her. 

She lay awake long into the night, and when she finally did sleep, she dreamed of Hannibal, handcuffed to the table in the visitor's room at Baltimore State Hospital where she had spent so much time with Will. She was trying to administer a test to Hannibal, but he was making origami out of the paper and mocking her. She tried to ignore him until she realized with a start that the test had become Will's journal, which he was tearing apart. She leaped over the table to stop him – attack him – and woke with a start, feeling Will stir next to her without waking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss hearing from all of you! Leave a comment, if you'd like, and say hello!


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